#flat as a salt pan
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canisalbus · 1 year ago
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You should put Machete in a turtle neck with a spooky shaped boob window, for what other holiday could you do such a thing?
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lionheartlr · 5 months ago
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Botswana
Botswana, a landlocked country in Southern Africa, offers a unique blend of spectacular wildlife, rich culture, and vibrant history. This travel guide will take you through everything you need to know for an unforgettable visit to Botswana. Brief History Botswana, known as Bechuanaland during the colonial period, has a rich history dating back to ancient times with early hunter-gatherer…
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#1966#a landlocked country in Southern Africa#adventure#africa#and has since established itself as one of Africa’s most stable democracies.#and Kasane Airport#and major credit cards are accepted in most hotels#and rabies are recommended. A yellow fever vaccination is required if you are coming from a country with yellow fever. Q: What languages are#and Setswana is the national language widely spoken by the locals. Q: Is it safe to drink tap water in Botswana? A: In major towns and citie#and shops.#and unique cultural heritage. Whether you&039;re seeking adventure in the wild or a serene escape#and various dishes made from millet and maize. Botswana offers an enriching travel experience with its incredible wildlife#and vibrant history. This travel guide will take you through everything you need to know for an unforgettable visit to Botswana.#bogobe (sorghum porridge)#Botswana#Botswana has something for every traveler.#Botswana&039;s main international gateway is Sir Seretse Khama International Airport in Gaborone. Other important airports include Maun Air#Chobe is a haven for wildlife enthusiasts. Moremi Game Reserve: Located in the Okavango Delta#close to Chobe National Park.#destinations#europe#except for citizens of certain countries who are granted visa-free entry. It&039;s advisable to check the latest visa requirements before t#has a rich history dating back to ancient times with early hunter-gatherer communities. It gained independence from British colonial rule on#hepatitis B#hospitable people#in rural areas#it’s advisable to drink bottled or boiled water. Q: What are some must-try foods in Botswana? A: Must-try foods include seswaa (pounded meat#kenya#known as Bechuanaland during the colonial period#Moremi is known for its diverse ecosystems and abundant wildlife. Makgadikgadi Pans: One of the largest salt flats in the world
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luveline · 1 month ago
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anything with roan and eddie pls 🙏🙏 whatever you want to write about them!! i miss them 🥺🥺
thanks for requesting!! fem
Baking tray, beef cuts laid out flat. Eddie works in silence, dressing the beef with garlic honey, sesame seeds, and a big pinch of salt. He’d like to add some ginger, some paprika, but Roan doesn’t like when things taste smoky. 
He saran wraps the tray and puts it in the fridge. He makes everyone’s veggies —you like different stuff to Eddie, who likes different stuff to Roan, so he makes a garden’s worth of greens and douses them in olive oil, flaky salt, and a little dash of lemon and pepper. He puts that atop the beef in the fridge and tries to think of a side. He was planning on making pasta tonight, before he realised the beef was gonna go bad soon. Maybe he’ll make a pan of crispy mac and cheese to go with it. 
Yeah. He smiles to himself. That looks good on his head, two roasted ribs, a fist of mac and cheese, and a half a plate of roasted veggies. 
He cuts a little cilantro ‘cos Roan loves it, adds some lemon juice to that too, and sets it aside in the fridge. He makes a quick mac and cheese on the stove and tips it into a baking tray, covers a third of it in bacon bits for the youngster, and puts that in the oven. 
Then he sits at the table and sighs. Scratches two hands through his hair, lets the tight achy small of his back decompress as he leans forward. 
When Eddie started working at the shop with Wayne, he figured it would get easier over time. Part time table-bussing wasn’t going to pay for a trailer or his brand new baby, and for months it’s not like he could work anyhow. He lived solely off of his Uncle Wayne as he learned to change diapers, and calm colic, and be a new dad. It was depressing and frustrating all of the time. He felt like shit because he’d just fucking landed Wayne with another mouth to feed and diapers were so, so expensive, and so was formula, and baby clothes, and the guilt worsened when he realised he loved her. Loved Roan. He loved her pretty much the moment he laid eyes on her, but he had no idea if he could be a father, just knew he couldn’t let his kid fall into the system. 
But loving her had been second to panic for weeks. Then one day he was washing her tummy in the bath and he swore blind that she smiled at him, whether babies her age could smile or not. He tumbled out of the bathroom with her in a towel poncho to brag, and that night at dinner, Wayne gave a frowny Eddie the option: start working alternate shifts at the shop. Wayne would have her in the evenings while Eddie worked, they’d sorted everything out, he could start next week. It wasn’t half as scary as being a new dad, so Eddie said yes. 
Anyways, he expected it to get easier. He knows more about parenting and cars than he ever imagined at twenty, but it’s still hard. He’s exhausted. 
Good thing he knows exactly why he does it. 
The door to the living room opens with a creak. Small feet pad around the stair bannister and down the hallway that leads to the kitchen. Roan stops walking when she notices him behind the table. She smiles. She looks like him, less as she gets older, but enough to have given an appreciation for his own features. What’s more beautiful than seeing your smile on someone else’s lips?
“Hey, daddy.” 
“Hi, munchkin.” 
Truthfully, Roan has been his best friend for years. There’s something intangibly close about a single parent and their only child, especially when they’d lived alone. Day after day together, seeing all the gross bits and all the love. It’s given her a vast depth of emotional intelligence. She’s smarter now as a kid than Eddie was at 18. 
“You okay?” she asks, holding her hands up. He picks her up, plonking her on the table in front of him. “You look tired, daddy. And you smell like pepper.” 
“I just finished making ribs, babe.” 
“Yum!” Her nose moves when she talks, “For dinner?” 
“Mm-hm.” He finds her hand. Holds it gently. “Mac and cheese and roasted broccoli, too.” 
Roan smiles again. “Dad, you’re a good chef.” 
“I know I am! But it took so much practice. When you were born, you know what I was eating for dinner every night? I was eating chicken pot pie you put in the microwave.” She wrinkles her nose. “I know. I didn’t care about being good to my body. I definitely didn’t listen to my tummy.”
He likes this part about being a dad. He’s never found it awkward. He just drops his voice into softness and talks to her on her level. 
“But you learned.” 
“I did learn. I wanted to make sure you were eating everything you need. That’s why we eat all that broccoli.” 
She pokes him in the torso with her socked foot. “Maybe less broccoli for my tummy.” 
“I got potatoes and stuff too, don’t worry.” Eddie reaches for her hair in its after school mess, raking it away from her face. “You know I love you, right?” 
“Well, duh.” 
“I know, but really. I love you more than anything.” 
“More than Y/N?” 
“No,” he says quickly, then laughs. “Yeah, but just a little bit. It’s a different kind of love, okay? I love you both like crazy, but you’re my baby. Even though you’re not a baby anymore.” 
“I could be a baby,” she whispers, grinning, “I can be small again, and you can carry me everywhere, and give me a bottle.” 
He laughs roughly. “Yeah? You want a bottle? You barely like milk.” 
“Well, you can still carry me.” 
“I do carry you. I’m surprised these feet work,” he says, squeezing her toes in both hands. 
“Dad, don’t!”
“Sorry, sorry,” he presses his thumb between her foot and her toes and then drops them altogether. “I remember when your foot was the size of my thumb.” 
“I don’t.” 
He laughs more loudly than he means to and scoops her up for a rough and tumble hug. “God, I love you. I really do, bubby.” He presses his nose to her head and blames how tired he is for what he says next. “You are everything to me, you know that? You’re my everything.” 
“You’re my everything.” 
He tips her back to see her. Beams at her, touches his nose to hers. “You and Y/N, you make my life perfect.” 
“I’m glad,” she says, which has him laughing all over again, a childish giggle. 
When you get home a half hour later, you find them in weird places. Eddie’s sitting on the kitchen floor watching the ribs cook in the oven, and Roan’s under the table building a marble run with his approval. “Here?” she asks. 
“And the orange piece. We need more pieces, it’s not long enough.” Eddie smiles at you as you enter, but leans back, opening the cupboard under the sink to grab a saucepan, the sieve, and plastic jug. “We can use these.” 
“What’s up, my Munsons?” you ask. 
Roan smacks her forehead against the edge of the table in her excitement. “Ouch!” she says, crawling from under it to crowd your legs. 
“Ouch!” you echo, face morphed with concern as your handbag slides down your arm. You drop it to the floor and take her cheeks into your hands. “Did that hurt? I’m sorry, I feel like that was all my fault.” 
She shakes her head, curls bouncing this way and that. “It was an accident.” 
“I know, I know, but I didn’t mean to startle you.” You brush her hair back gently and hover. “Can I kiss it better?” 
“Don’t kiss it, it stings!” Roan says, veering away from you with a frown. 
“Sorry!” 
Roan twists away from you to fall into Eddie’s lap. 
“Sorry,” Eddie mouths. 
You pout. It’s with extreme beautifulness —is that a word? Eddie’s pretty sure it’s a word— you slip out of your little heels and sit down on your knees, stockings dark and perfect on legs he adores. You don’t question why they’re on the floor. That’s how you all fit, his smart working girl and your shared grumpy daughter, because nobody asked Eddie why he sat down by the oven. 
“Sorry, baby,” you say softly.
Roan’s frown worsens, but she says, “No, I’m sorry. My head hurts. I missed you.”
“I missed you too, big girl.” 
“Big girl?” she asks. 
“You sounded very grown up, is all.” 
Eddie has to agree. “You’re just that smart.” 
You hold his ankle. “So, how was work? How was school? Fill me in.” 
“How was your day?” Eddie asks. 
“Super usual and boring. We had some people from the Brussels branch come to visit and Jess kept telling me to stop being so awkward, and I asked her what she meant and she said I was smiling like somebody was holding me hostage.” 
Eddie loves when you smile like that. When you’d first met, you used to smile that way all the time. He loves all your smiles, obviously, but your excited–scared combo isn’t one he sees much anymore. 
You shrug. “But work paid for lunch, and I had this amazing mango passionfruit cake roll, I snook you some.” 
“You did?” Roan asks eagerly.
“I did! It’s in my purse, but it has a price.” 
“What’s the price?” Roan asks. 
You put your head in your hand. “I wanna know what you guys have been up to today.” 
When Eddie plates dinner that evening, it’s with a distinct sense of pride and content mashed together. It’s a damn good-looking meal, dense with nutrition and flavour alike, and you and Roan both seem similarly awed. Eddie wanted ribs and he got them, but almost as pleasurable as eating them is the way you both tuck in. You compliment his roasted veggies, telling him you could eat them for every meal, and Roan’s face is plastered in sticky honey garlic in minutes, a macaroni elbow in her hair. 
“Know what dad told me earlier?” she asks you. 
You snort and rescue her hair. “What did he tell you, baby?” 
“That we make his life perfect.” 
Eddie chokes on his coke. “That was a secret,” he says, throat burning, “between you and me?” 
“You didn’t tell me that,” Roan says.  
“Don’t be embarrassed, Eds.” Your eyes turn to hearts, staring at him over the steaming tray of macaroni and cheese. “You guys make my life perfect, too. My babe and my personal chef.” 
He dodges your cheek pinch, grabbing your hand to hold instead. 
“Just wish somebody would make me dinner every once in a while,” he says.
“Whatever,” you say. 
“Dad, I can make you dinner.” 
“I don’t trust you ‘round the kitchen.” 
Roan guides a forkful of cheesy macaroni to her lips. “Okay, good. I can’t make pasta like you,” she says. Eddie won’t mind making dinner again tomorrow. 
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princeguri66 · 5 months ago
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Reader who whenever on break or on leave or whatever would cook for the whole task force because he can't STAND British food. like whatever they serve in the mess hall he'd definitely eat it but when it's reader's off day or the whole tf141 is having a break he'd refuse opting to cook himself.
And when he does it's a blessing to the task force, they'd wait patiently for the next time they can go on leave just so they can have reader's cooking. Like I bet some of those mfs would still like some beans on toast or some shit but they'd want reader specifically to cook for them (says it tastes better when he makes it)
They pay by being the ones who buy groceries and materials for you to cook, it's like you're their personal chef and they love you for it.
Can you just imagine the domesticity of it all? Where you cook doesn't matter, it could be on base or your own flat.
You're watching over the stove, multiple dishes cooking at the same time to make sure you could fill up the bellies of five (including yours) grown men.
Gaz usually being the most helpful out of the bunch. Like you're too busy fussing over the steak that's searing on the pan he's making sure the fries don't burn.
Ghost would only be allowed on ingredient prepping duty, like chopping vegetables or grating cheese because he almost burnt the kitchen down with his mishandling over the stove.
Soap being the one who'd get whatever ingredient you need, like if you need to add more salt he'd dash from where he was sitting to right beside you with the salt shaker.
And with all that going on of course the dishes would pile up and Price would do the dishes, in between the cooking and after eating.
Idk I'm sorry this became a weird thing abt how the others would behave when you lot cook together I'm just brain dumping 😔
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markatoto · 1 year ago
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fan of breasts?
chicken breasts? yeah! they are, maybe & arguably, one of the most delicious part of the chicken. well, maybe next to drumsticks (which i personally prefer for things like fried chicken, or soups). in particular, i like to use chicken breasts for making katsu, which, lemme tell ya, i'm no expert cook, but id like to think that i do a pretty good job.
matter of fact, if you want an extremely simple recipe, here's how i personally make chicken katsu (all off the top of my head, so some slight details might be missing, so please bear with me):
you'll need a few ingredients
panko (any sort of breadcrumbs will work, but panko is just the brand i use)
cookin' oil (usually simple vegtable oil will work)
the actual chicken breast, of course
the ol' traditional: salt and pepper
one egg (u dont need any more than one egg, typically)
if u wanna make things extra crunchy, having some corn starch mixed in with garlic powder + onion powder for some extra seasoning. maybe even a scoosh of paprika for that yummy (i personally like using this filipino chicken mixture called "crispy fry", which is usually used for fried chicken, but it works here too. it's usually meant for fried chicken drumstick, but what is katsu but a different kind of fried chicken)
anyways, here's how u wanna do things:
take out your chicken breast, pat it down with a paper towel so that it aint wet on the surface and either: slice it so that the chicken breast is about inch and a quarter (or so) thick OR use a mallet to make it around that thickness. youll want your chicken flat as possible, but not too flat! i think you know what i mean.
salt and peppa that mothafucka, both sides (OPTIONAL STEP 2B: it's at this point id probably mix my chicken breast with the starch mixture/crispy fry. it just gives a lil extra flavour and crunch that i enjoy. but this is just me, u dont really gotta do it)
crack open an egg and put it in a bowl. MIX IT UP
put your flattened (and maybe crispy fry seasoned) chicken in the egg. get it drenched, you want that panko to stick to that shit
what i like to do is i like to put panko in a plastic container with a lid, then i put the chicken in the container, close the lid up and just SHAKE it so that its nice and evenly coated. super simple and fun and WAY cleaner to deal with after the fact LOL
pop your oil in your pan. put in generous amount, enough that your chicken wont necessarily be drowning, but enough that your chicken will be sufficiently fried. heat that up until the oil reaches that perfect temperature of around 350'F (that is THE temp for doing any deep frying)
pop your chicken on the pan and leave it frying on the one side for, id say, approximately 4-5 minutes. youre going to have to keep a close watch on it. make sure that panko is that GOOD crispy brown on each side. over all it should take you like…. 7-9 minutes for your katsu to be done.
BEFORE YOU EAT... make sure the internal temp of the chicken is around 160 - 165'F. if it is, it's good to go. take it out and, what i like to do is get a plate and pop on a paper towel to let the katsu dry off all the excess oil. even though its off the pan, that shit is STILL cookin, so youll want to leave it alone for like… a minute or two. plus if you eat it now you'll totally burn your tongue and that's the WORST feeling in the world
and after all that, your katsu is done! get some jasmine (white) rice, put on some katsu sauce and some japanese mayo with a lil bit of furikake for that slight seaweed flavoring and youll be GOOD to go!!
so yeah, i guess you can say i'm a fan of breasts.
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fuckingrecipes · 1 month ago
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How do I make mindblowing spaghetti sauce? I have been gifted a fuckton of homemade canned tomatoes and nothing but time this weekend.
Do the tomatoes have skin? If so, you'll need to dump them into a bowl and remove the skin by hand. Tomato skin in sauce is no bueno.
Are your tomatoes whole? If so, you'll need to quarter them & remove the seeds & goo in the middle.
Is there lots of excess water around your tomatoes? Drain that out.
If your tomatoes have already been deskinned, seeds removed, drained and quartered; proceed to next steps.
If you want a finer sauce (less chunks), crush or dice the tomatoes now.
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Make sure your pot is big enough to handle ALL the cans of tomatoes you'll be using at this time. For the sake of being easier to handle, I recommend no more than 3-4 cans/mason jars at a time in the pot.
For each can of tomatoes, get yourself 1 small-to-medium onion, and a couple cloves of garlic.
Chop all the onions. Crush & chop OR mince all the garlic.
In a saucepan, burner set to 'high', add enough butter that you can lean the pot around and coat the bottom. Let it melt completely.
Dump in all your onion.
Stir the onions around constantly, mixing and flipping them over until all the onions are starting to turn just thoroughly translucent, but not quite turning brown yet. (If they start to turn brown, turn the heat down a little)
Once they're translucent, push the onions to the side so you have some of your pan-bottom showing and dump your garlic in. Smush it flat-ish so most of the garlic is touching the pan. Leave it there until the bottom of the garlic is turning brown, then mix it all into the onions.
Immediately dump in all the tomatoes you used to make those onion calculations earlier. Toss in some red pepper flakes (use your own judgement here.)
For each can of tomatoes, add about 1-2 ounces of vodka or rum. (there are a lot of amazing, rich tomato flavors which can only be revealed using alcohol, and not oil or water)
For each can of tomatoes, add roughly 1 tsp of salt, if they weren't canned using salt.
Turn the heat down to 'low' and let it simmer (stay on the heat, producing lots of steam but few, if any, bubbles) for about 5 minutes.
At this point, you can add your herbs.
You want: Basil, Oregano, Thyme, Savory, Majoram, and Sage. Many Italian Seasoning or Mediteranean Seasoning blends will have them.
You can choose to use all of them, or only what you can find. For a cheap and tasty blend, Badia Italian Seasoning Blend is easy and works well.
Personally, I think a little bit of nutmeg, sumac, and sesame seeds is also lovely but it's not "traditional" Italian. A "Za'atar" spice blend should have the sumac with oregano and thyme if you can't find it as a standalone spice.
You can also track down fresh herbs, make a big herb bundle tied with string and dump it in your sauce to simmer, instead of using the dried flake stuff. Or do some fresh, some dried.
Your sauce will be looking 'wet' or 'liquidy' at this point, and will likely have tomato chunks still. You can use a potato masher to crush the tomato chunks if you want, but it's not required.
Let it keep simmering on 'low' in 5-minute increments to evaporate water off. Remember to stir every time you check the pot. It may take 30 minutes to reduce down to a thick 'sauce' texture, if there was lots of water in your tomatoes.
When the sauce consistency starts to look 'saucy' and thicker, check and stir more frequently. Babysit the pot.
Taste the sauce! Add salt to taste. (About 1-2 tsp at a time, mix thoroughly, re-taste, & repeat until it tastes great.)
TIPS:
Keep an eye and nose on your sauce at all times, especially if it's in its thicker stages. If it seems to be burning AT ANY TIME, immediately take it entirely off the heat and stir rapidly to cool it! The smell should always be 'stewing tomatoes and herbs' not 'burning or roasting'
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If you want your sauce to have a 'brighter/fresher' tomato flavor, make sure to strain as much liquid out as you can before starting, so you don't have to cook the tomatoes as long.
If you like the savory 'cooked/stewed' tomato more than you like the fresher 'uncooked' tomato flavor, then leaving more water in the beginning will make a longer cook time, and more thoroughly stewed tomato.
If you don't have hand-canned tomatoes, you can also use canned tomatoes from the store.
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theshitpostcalligrapher · 2 years ago
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"scalloped" taters, an Old AF family recipe that was only written down in the last 20 years or so, with no measurements anywhere on the recipe card
oven-safe dish. preferably lidded, but loose aluminum foil works fine too
potates, however many you want or need to use up, sliced as thin as you get can them without a mandoline because no one in the family has ever had one
onions, halved and also sliced thin, quantity relative to how much you like onions
all purpose flour
milk (or halfnhalf if you're a decadent lil guy. you can also use unflavored and unsweetened nondairy milk. i've never tried it, but relatives have and reported positive results)
butter, either room temp so you can plop little bits of it or cut into tiny cubes
seasonings (salt, pepper, i've added fresh thyme and sweet paprika before to great success, old bay because i was half asleep and thought it was paprika and it was fine, nutmeg, five spice, go ham)
add a layer of taters to the bottom of the dish, not specified how deep, but flat double layer turns out best by my experimentations. add some onions. sprinkle some seasonings on it to taste. sprinkle some flour on it. again, no measurements, i use at least one heaping big soup spoon's worth of flour per layer, a solid dusting but you should be able to still see the potatoes through it. a few dots of butter. cannot stress enough that this is how the got dam recipe is written
repeat layers until you run out of potatoes, pressing down as needed. you want a little room between the top of the taters and the lip of the dish. or just bake it with a sheet pan on the rack below it if you're paranoid. don't flour the top layer of taters, butter it liberally instead. how much butter do you want? this is a recipe from 1890s southern usa, home of Eating Fat Recreationally, so the traditional answer is "too much"
the strongest vibe check: pour an unspecified amount of milk (carefully) into the potatoes without disturbing the layers. i usually put the milk in my nicest measuring pyrex with the good spout and pour slowly against the side of the dish. "how much milk?" you might ask naively, like i once did. "enough" is the answer i got. i usually pour until i see the whole mass of taters/onions/flour just start floating off the bottom of the dish. top layer not fully submerged but rubbing elbows with the milk. i like saucy potatoes. the temperature of the milk doesn't matter. i've simmered shit like garlic and bay leaf in it before pouring to great success
bake at 375 until it's done. literally word for word what the recipe says, doesn't say to cover it. i do so i can control sauce thickness and browning, but even that isn't necessary. i start checking after 20 mins. when it's done, the taters and onions will be soft all the way through and the milk/flour/butter/seasonings will have thickened into a sauce. how well this sauce hugs the taters and onions will entirely depend on whether my great great great grandmother reached through your spoon to help guide your flour to milk ratio. too runny for your liking, take the lid off and bake it some more. too thick, add more milk, push it around a little bit to mix, and bake it some more. the world is your potato
it's at its best after a 10-15 minute rest, but it isn't necessary. amount made is also relative; i have done a single serving of this in a ramekin with one (1) potato, quarter of an onion, in a toaster oven, all while very very sick, and it turned out splendidly. it's solid comfort food, 20/10 if great³ gramma possesses you during assembly
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ooooh ty ty
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bunjywunjy · 4 months ago
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BUNJY RECIPE: BERBERE POTATOS DELUXE (spicy)
before we get started, you are going to need two specialty things for this recipe: berbere spice powder and an oven-save saucepan, or dutch oven. berebere is a chili blend you can get online if you can't find it near you- I use this one!
ingredients:
2 shallots, cut into strings (I slice the bulb vertically along whatever plane leaves me with flattest halves, then thinly slice the halves. the slices will fall apart into strings on their own during cooking)
1 red bell pepper, diced
2ish pounds of thin-skinned potatoes sliced thinly (think yellow or red- I chop each potato into rough thirds and then slice the thirds vertically so there's a flat surface to keep it stable while I'm slicing)
5 garlic cloves, minced
1 can diced tomato with its liquid (I used fire-roasted)
1 1/2 tbsp berbere spice
3/4 cup water
salt to taste
pepper to taste
olive oil
first, preheat your oven to 400 F. heat your cooking vessel on the stovetop over medium heat until it comes up to temp, then add a glug of olive oil and then the shallots and red bell pepper. stir it around and let it cook until the shallots are totally broken apart into strings and are totally translucent, then add the garlic and stir around for another 30 seconds or so. Next, add the diced tomato and stir around to keep the garlic from burning, then add the water and berbere spice and mix well. (I put the water in the empty tomato can and swirl it around before adding it to get the last of the sauce in there) also add the salt and pepper. cook the mixture for maybe 10 minutes on medium heat until it thickens significantly, then turn the heat down to low. scoop out a cup or so of the mixture before moving to the next step. next, add the potatoes in maybe three batches, stirring well in between batches to separate the slices and coat them all with sauce on both sides. once all the potatoes are added, add back the cup of sauce you stole earlier on top of the mixture and spread it out evenly, making the potatoes into an even layer within the pan with a thin coating of sauce on top. before this next bit where you put the pan/cooking vessel/whatever in the oven, you can save yourself a future headache by using a wet rag or paper towel to gently wipe off any sauce that's spattered on the rim, down to about an inch or so above the mixture. this way those spatters don't burn to charcoal! once you've done that, cover with a lid or aluminum foil and put in the oven for one hour. at the end of the hour, take the cover off and then bake naked for another 10-15 minutes. and then it's done!
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furiousgoldfish · 4 months ago
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Survival skills: Cooking, Cleaning, Laundry, Living space maintenance, and other extra stuff, for those who need the basics because they've never been taught by abusive parents/caretakers! (this post is cooking only, I made another post for the rest)
Cooking
I'm going to assume you know absolutely nothing about cooking, and you're just looking for basic survival meals. There are videos online but it can be overwhelming to watch them without knowing the basics!
One of the first thing people usually learn is to make eggs; this is how you do it:
You find a pan, some eggs, and turn on the stove. You only turn the part of the stove on that you're intending to use. New stoves can be turned on by a click of a button that tells you which heat circle you're about to activate, old gas stoves sometimes need a little lighter, in order for the gas to catch fire! Don't worry; the fire will only be enough to heat up your meal. Once you've successfully turned the heat on, you put a pan on this heated area, and you leave it there for a minute or so, because you want the pan to be hot before you start putting food on it. That way the food will stick less to it too. You pour in about a spoonful of oil, if the pan is heated enough, the oil will easily spill around, then crack an egg directly into that oil, carefully not to splash oil on yourself. You can crack as many eggs as you want in there, depending on how hungry you are. The easiest way to crack it is to do it against a surface, and you're trying to keep any shell from getting into the pan – if you get some shell in, you can fish it out using some utensils.
If your pan has a lid, you can close it to allow the egg to be surrounded with heat on all sides. Some people like to add in a little water to steam the top of the egg, when they close the lid! The water will evaporate (if you add it, you don't have to). You'll see it's done very quickly, when the eggwhite is all in white color, and it gets a little brown on the bottom, you can check with a fork if it's brown yet! You turn the stove off, put the eggs on a plate. You salt it at your preference, and you have a meal.
Pancakes are the second thing I ever learned, it goes like this:
You need a bowl big enough for the pancake mix, a pan that is flat at the bottom, a whisk (or a fork if you have no whisk), a knife or some long flat utensil that can flip pancakes. One or two eggs, milk (can do with water too), flour, sugar, salt. American version uses baking soda or baking powder, in my country we do without that and will sometimes add mineral water. Baking soda and baking powder just make them puff up and make the little air bubbles inside of them, so you can decide if you want flat pancakes or puffed up ones!
You crack the eggs into the bowl, add milk (you add however much you want the mixture to have, there's no hard limits), add a spoon of sugar, pinch of salt, and you mix this up with a whisk or a fork, and then add flour bit by bit, until the mixture becomes a bit thick. It's still supposed to be liquid, you're supposed to be able to pour it out easily, but the consistency is supposed to be thick enough to not be runny, if you drop some on a plate, it should not spill around. If this is confusing, you can try making it with different consistencies and see which one you like best and which one works best for you!
Once you have your pancake batter, you can turn on the stove, put your flat pan on it, and wait for it to heat up, you want it hot before you start. Put about a spoon of oil on the pan, pick it up and angle it around, so the oil covers the entire bottom of the pan – if the oil is hot, it should spill around the pan easily! Then you can grab either a big spoon, or a telugu, or you can just pour directly from the bowl, the pancake batter. If you've added baking soda or baking powder, you want small little puffed-up pancakes, so you add them in little circles and wait for them to be cooked on one side. If you want flat pancakes, you add the mixture to the middle, then grab the pan and angle it around so the batter spills over the entire pan, so it covers the entire bottom of it, like you did with the oil.
It's cooked on one side when it's no longer looking liquid on the top, usually within one minute. At that point you grab your knife, or whatever utensil you have that can flip pancakes, you push it under the pancake, see if the entire pancake is unstuck to the pan, if there's bits sticking, you unstick that first! If you can easily separate the pancake, you try to flip it. Later when you have more confidence, you can flip them just by grabbing the pan, shaking it to unstick, and then snapping it so the pancake snaps up, turns in the air and falls down – it's what I usually do, but you need to be careful to not have a lot of oil under it in that case.
If you mess up the flipping, don't worry, it's still edible even if not cooked perfectly on both sides, it also happens to everyone on the planet, I mess this up regularly, you didn't do anything wrong, pancakes are fickle and don't listen to reason or logic, you can still eat it, it's all good.
Once it's been cooking on the other side for half a minute or so (usually takes less time to cook the other side), you can slide it onto a plate, then cook the rest of your pancakes (usually the first looks the worst and the second one is better), and then you can put whatever toppings you want. We usually use jam, or cocoa, it can work with just sugar, or maple syrup, or honey, or fruit (berries), or some melted chocolate. You can eat it as-is if you don't have anything. In any case you've made something nice tasting that has some protein from the eggs, milk and flour, and you're not going to be hungry after eating them.
Vegetables
I'm going to assume you don't know anything about vegetables, and what you need to know is that there's 2 main differences between veggies: cooking time, and whether they let water out, or soak water in. You can cook any vegetable in water, salt it, and it will become edible, it's not complicated, it's healthy no matter how you do it. If you want to mix different vegetables, you need to know what their cooking time is, so you could add them at different times in your soup/stir fry/whatever you're doing.
All of the legumes (beans, peas, chickpeas, lentils, soy beans) will take water in when they're cooked, they usually are soaked about 8 hours before cooking (lentils and fresh peas don't need the soak) and then cooked for about an hour. Soaking just means you put them in a bowl, cover them so there's twice as much water in there as beans, and then just leave that for 8 hours. Afterwards you throw away that water, put them in a pot, pour new fresh water over them, put this on heat until it boils, then reduce the heat so it's not bubbling so violently, it can be a very gentle bubbling, cover it and let it cook for about an hour. Then you can take one out with a spoon, check if it's soft and nice tasting, and if it is, you're done! You can now use your cooked beans for a meal.
Fresh peas you can just cook for 10 minutes and they're done, lentils can take up to half an hour, chickpeas can be an hour and a half of cooking time, you can adjust this to how these taste to you. After you've done your basic cooking of them, you can eat them in a salad (you just add some oil, salt, vinegar, spices and whatever other veggies you have, and you got a salad), or you can additionally bake them, cook them in a pan, use them for other recipes. You can NOT eat these raw, you need to cook them until soft, if you attempt to eat raw legumes, you will get poisoned.
Vegetables like cabbage and asparagus also likes to take in some water, so be sure to never let them cook just on oil for long, they get softer and nicer with some water.
Vegetables that let water out while cooking are: Zucchini, tomatoes, peppers, beets; this means that if you put them in a pan with some oil, the mix will get soggy quickly, they will let out their own juices, which you sometimes might want! Also they will let more juice out more quickly, if you salt them, salt helps take juices out.
Vegetables that don't take water in or out, meaning they can be cooked just on oil and the mix will stay the same: onions, leek, potatoes, green beans, garlic, carrots, pumpkin. You can put any of these in a hot oiled pan, cook them, and you will get a nice stir-fry, that won't get soggy. You can also add the peppers, zuchinni, or any water-letting vegetable in, and then cook it until all the water evaporates, that works as well! This is then a sautee, meaning you're cooking the vegetables in their own juices, which is delicious.
Greens like spinach and swiss chard are usually added to stir-fry mix last because they are done cooking very fast. Okay let's look at some of the cook times (these are in water, oil cooks them all faster):
Cooking times for vegetables
Potatoes: 20 minutes if in big pieces, 10 if cut really small. Cannot be eaten raw, poisonous when raw.
Carrots: Can be eaten raw, you can cook them for any time you want, they'll get soft after 10 minutes, in soups they can be cooked for long time to let the flavor out.
Zucchini: takes only 5 minutes to get soft and start letting water out, you can cook anytime in a soup, it's not poisonous when raw either.
Peppers: will get soft after 5 minutes, can be eaten raw and are full of vitamins.
Pumpkins: 5-10 minutes to get soft, can be cooked in soups for longer.
Onion and leek: 5 minutes, gets soft very quickly, you can cook in soup for any amount of time, this is the main flavor of many meals! Onions and leeks are added to meals specifically to make them flavourful, and so is garlic.
Green beans: 20 minutes, don't eat raw.
Peas: 20 minutes if fresh, longer if they're dry and soaked.
Spinach, swiss chard, other greens: they're done in an instant almost, a minute of cooking is enough.
Broccoli, cauliflower: 5-10 minutes, depends on how small they're cut.
How to make a vegetable soup:
You'll need onions, and other vegetables of your choice, you can decide which ones mix well for you. Where I live it's traditionally onions, parsley, celery, carrots for the base, and then it can be leeks, potatoes, peas, green beans, broccoli, cauliflower, zuchinni, peppers, even just one or a few of these ingredients will make an okay soup, you can mix and match them to your liking or according to what you have. The main flavor of the soup usually comes from onions, or garlic if you want to make garlic-tasting soup.
You cut your vegetables first, and the size doesn't really matter, you cut them how you want to eat them, it won't specifically affect the quality, can make the cooking time less if you cut them really small.
You turn on the stove, put a pot on it, let it heat up for a minute or two. Then you add a spoon or two of oil, and you add your onions. You let onions cook for a few minutes while stirring them, this is your main flavor, and the longer you can stir them without them getting burned, the better the soup will taste. When they start browning, you can add other flavor enhancers, like garlic if you have some, salt and spices, and if you're doing potatoes or green beans or leeks, I would add those in sooner too, because oil enhances their flavor. Once these have some good flavor profile, you can add the rest of your cut veggies, and pour water until all of your vegetables are covered. Then you let the water come to boil, reduce the heat, and let it cook until the longest-cooking vegetable is fully cooked.
Soups made of only vegetables are not super filling, so people will usually add some pasta-like stuff in it, I will make a little mixture out of flour, water and salt, with soft consistency, and then add spoonfuls of that in the soup – this is done in the last 5 minutes of cooking, because this only needs a few minutes to cook. That will make your soup more filling!
It's also normal to add some kind of meat to your soup from the start, to enhance flavor and add more nutrients, I can't really write about this because I actually don't consume meat so I am not smart about it, but I know stuff like pieces of meat, or pieces of bone are added to soup, and then soups are cooked much longer in order for the nutrients and the flavor to combine.
If you're feeling super lazy you can just add bunch of vegetables and pasta and whatever to a pot, add water, boil, and it will still be a soup, even if you don't pay attention to how flavours combine and if cooking time is not aligned, this will still turn into something edible if you add salt and you won't be hungry or lacking in nutrients. So if my detailed description sounds intimidating, you can do it in whatever way. Just adding water and heat and salt to vegetables, makes them edible, and you can eat that and be done. It doesn't need to be perfect.
If you want to make a specialized soup, like mushroom soup, tomato soup, pea soup, it's basically the same thing with putting some onions on oil, but then you just add this one thing you want your soup from, like you'll just add tomatoes, garlic and some spices to the onions if you want tomato soup. For mushroom, you just add mushrooms and whatever spice you want, and later you can blend it with together if you want a creamy soup. For peas, you just add peas on top of onions, add water, cook that, smash or blend it to make it creamy. Those are super easy soups, and onions are a base flavor for all of them. And you can even do it without onions and it's fine, they'll still have an okay taste.
Sauces: are very similar to soups, except you add some flour on the oil, mix that to make a roux and then add water to make it thick! You choose whether you want a tomato sauce, mushroom sauce, or whatever else, and you make it a thicker consistency than a soup, and with more concentrated flavor (less water).
Mashed foods: you cook your vegetable in water, cut to any size you want, once the cooking time is over and your vegetable is super soft, you pour the water our (you can reuse it for soups later), add salt, you can add some butter or milk if you like it more creamy, and you mash it with a masher or a fork, until it's all mashed! You can do this with many vegetables, you can make mashed potatoes, pumpkins, zucchini, carrots, peas. You can even mix two veggies, I love mashed potatoes with zucchini mix.
Fried foods: I don't do this a lot, so I am not the best to explain it, but the basics of this is that hot oil cooks the food much quicker, draws out much more flavor, and makes it delicious! It also adds a decent amount of calories so it's great for when you need a lot of energy quickly. I know people like to smash pieces of meat, cut it or grind it into small pieces, then mix it with cut up onion, garlic, spices and herbs, add some flour, and then form it into nice little patties, which they can fry on oil, and it makes for a good sandwich pattie. You can also make this type of pattie out of vegetables, if you mix some cooked beans, soy, lentils, potatoes, cabbage savoy, kale, really anything with some flour, garlic, spices and salt, and form it into a pattie, you can put it on hot oil and make a little burger pattie, or mix it with some mashed potatoes to create a meal.
I'm unable to make detailed instructions for meat as I don't consume it, but I know it's important to cook it thoroughly, and make sure it's never raw in the middle, because it could give you diseases otherwise. I won't go into making bread because this post is already too long, but if you want me to write it out in detail, let me know!
If you want to make more specialized meals, you can find instructions and recipes anywhere, knowing the basics will make it easier to understand any recipe out there. I myself am not good at baking so I won't go into that!
I'm going to write a separate post on cleaning, maintaining space and laundry, because this is already very long and might be overwhelming to read. If anyone wants to write details about non-vegetarian dishes, please do add it in the comments!
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highvern · 11 months ago
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Heart of the Sea
Pairing: Jeon Wonwoo x fem!reader
Genre: angst, romance, adventure, pirate!au, royalty!au
Content Warnings: weapons, graphic depictions of violence, blood, mentions of drowning, prostitution, depictions of parental abuse, torture, drugging, alcohol, death, eventual smut, unhealthy relationship dynamics/toxicity, they're pirates and not the peter pan silly goofy kind.
reader warnings: reader has breasts, long hair but i try not to describe more than length, she/her pronouns, and referred to as "princess"
Length: ~22k
Note: ITS FINALLY HERE!! longest fic I've ever written. my pride and joy. this is a dark fic and i tried to make the warnings as clear as possible. the romance is a slow burn. please do not interact if you may be triggered! take care of yourself first!
extra warning: MINORS DNI! 18+ ONLY! You will be hard blocked!
read more here
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Old Friends
Salt water on the stale air caresses your senses awake, rousing you from your deep slumber as the gentle rocking of the tide tempts you to return to its depths. In the belly of the ship, only the gentle flame of an oil lantern hanging from the ceiling illuminates the dark closet you call your room. Just wide enough that your palms lay flat against each wall when your arms are extended, deep enough to hang a hammock for restless dozes through the night. 
Something is wrong.
A ship full of thieves, criminals, and other degenerates never quiets to an eerie silence such as this. The lap of the ocean at the wooden sides of the vessel drowns most noise but she seldom comes away with a clean sweep like she does currently. 
Something is very very wrong.
Twisting out of the hammock, your feet hit the floor with a slash. The black oily surface of water reflects in the dim light, consuming the entirety of your boots, soaking up to the middle of your shins. A quick survey of your space shows your only possession, a small leather trunk, bobbing in the corner.
The real prizes decorate your figure. Daggers tucked in their sheaths, littering their usual hiding places: one tucked under each cuff of your shirt, the largest one strapped to your thigh, one in the lining of each boot, and several strapped to the leather belt across your chest. Your revolver sits on your hip, golden neck polished, loaded like you left it before dozing off.
The door to this room is one of the few that sits less than an inch off the ground. Meaning the water in here is likely nothing compared to what's beyond the thick piece of wood. You need to get out of here. Out of this room and out to the deck. 
Steadying yourself, you plant your feet in a fighting stance, preparing for the force that will race in once the door opens. Barely a turn of the knob, a click of the latch and the door is blown wide; smacking into the wall behind as the sea rushes in, informing you that the water beyond is up to your thigh as it threatens to knock you off your feet.
The worn wood of the threshold threatens to rip your nails as you hold on for dear life. If you fall into the flood, it's over. You won’t be able to get back up, crushed under the weight of the ocean’s will. It's the first thing you learn on a ship: the sea takes and takes and she doesn’t return what she’s claimed no matter how much you plead. And if you do get away, she’ll come to collect eventually.
Arms straining and thighs burning, you force forward against the onslaught. By the time you exit the confines of your room , the water is at your chest. Caressing your collar bones, lapping at your neck like a crude noose. The jostle of your movement claps waves into your face. 
I’ve got you now. The sea whispers. Finally ran out of borrowed time, little bird.
Salt water burns your nose with each bob of your head as you work towards the stairs leading up and out. The tang floods your mouth, pooling in the back of your throat; choking you, silencing your scream for help.
Give up. The seductive voice purrs in your ear. Come to me. Let me give you oblivion.
When the ocean finds home in your lungs, you let her take what she’s owed. 
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A knife to the throat is a less than friendly way to greet your second but Wonwoo should have expected it. His mistake for standing too close to wake his captain.
Wild eyes stare up at him, cataloging his features as the cool metal point pinches his airway. Sharp eyes, firm mouth, scar from temple to chin. He doesn’t flinch as you press a little firmer, forcing the dagger into the pale skin of his neck. Finally, safe triggers in your head.
Still, it takes a few seconds before your muscles relax enough to let you retract the small piece of steel.
“You’re needed on the deck.”
A shuddered breath is all the response he gets before you wave him out.
Wonwoo refuses to move, pointed gaze burning yours.
“Handle it.” You bark.
“Told me not to make deals in your name.”
That peaks your interest.
“Who is it?”
“Stragglers from a sinking ship.” He reports. “Seokmin pulled them from the wreckage.”
“Of course he did.” 
If Wonwoo was a stupider man he’d mistake the exasperation in your tone for fondness. But he’s not. If Seokmin was less valuable then his ass would have been at the bottom of the sea months ago. But the strikes against him are stacking higher and higher, and your goodwill is running out.
Today, you’re in one of your better moods. Seokmin will probably end up back in the wreckage with the sorry sailors he saved if none of them prove to be of any use. That is, if you let them take a breath after finding out just who exactly is standing above you.
“What colors?”
Their allegiance. The flag had been long gone by the time the three men were pulled from the chilly depths. But the brands on their necks tell it just the same. A circle with a vertical line through the middle.
“Krakens.”
You're out of your bed and up the stairs before Wonwoo can blink.
Face cold as the winter wind that screams from the north, you hone in on your target the second you're in the daylight. Seokmin doesn’t see it coming as you round on him. The brass knuckles swirling around your fingers rips a sizable gash across his cheek as the crack of your hand rings out, silencing your audience.
He falls to his knees as his own hands move to protect his face, a pained “Fuck!” leaving his lips. 
“You’re lucky I don't shoot you!” You spit, lips curled and teeth bared.
Garnet blood dripping from his chin to the wooden planks only furthers your disdain for the man in front of you. The gun on your hip sings like a siren but you have bigger problems to deal with. Seokmin won’t get the bullet with his name engraved on it today but tonight he should pray to whatever powers be that it finds another target first.
Whirling to the three strangers backed against the main mast, you eye them up and down. Wonwoo was right to wake you, because looking you in the eye with a shit eating grin is the demon you’ve been avoiding for years. The reason for your nightmares. The reason for the lump of hardened charcoal where a beating heart should be.
“Miss me?” he smirks.
In a flash, the revolver is in your hand. The shot hits dead center of the scant inches between his feet, smoke rising from the hole embedded in the surface of the deck. Whisps still rise from the muzzle of the gun as you cock the second bullet and raise your arm to aim for his heart. 
His cocky facade slips for a fraction of a second, but it pulls the infamous bloodthirsty smile to your lips.
“You’re a dead man, Jeonghan.”
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The hesitant rap at the door rips your attention away from the creased parchment sprawled across your desk. Tallies of loots, debts, bribes, and more litter the ledger in tight neat script; providing nothing more than a swelling vein throbbing across your temple.
“Come in.” You beckon, eyes glued to your ledger.
Tracking his movements in your peripheral, Seokmin’s entire presence screams terror. He doesn’t dare look up when he cracks the door to your office open, barely enough for him to slip inside. Even the click of the latch is silent as he shuts it, releasing the twisted knob once it’s back home; attempting to make himself as small as possible, like a mouse trying to escape a snake’s nest. He knows it’s judgment day and he’s been found wanting. The weight of his sentence hangs around his heart where he just might find a bullet in the next few minutes.
“Sit.”
He isn’t a horrible crew member. Bad pirate? Absolutely. But he’s loyal as they come, works hard as anyone else with something to prove to the world. 
Seokmin was a farmer's son. One of several and the last in line to inherit any crumb of wealth his family could ever offer. At least that's what he told everyone. On the Hydra, a person’s story was their own. You didn’t care who they were before they inked their loyalty onto the base of their skull, just that no one would come for them with a debt to settle while aboard your ship.
The farm hardened his body but his heart was soft as wax under a flame. In spite of the obvious flaw, it’s why he’s the best at collecting information. Pure face and a familiar warmth, naivety rolling off him in waves. A few cheap secrets swimming out his mouth, misinformed beliefs regarding the way the world worked spoken a little too loud and viola! Some fool would step up to the plate to correct him, spilling their guts on the table just before Seokmin’s knife spilled them on the floor. 
Despite what he cost you in sanity, he’d been worth his weight in gold when it came to finding leads on loose lips. Sometimes even loose legs. The women at brothels adamantly refused to take the coin you padded his pocket with. Always sending him back hours later than expected with the familiar jingle of a full purse and an unmistakable swagger in his step. You swear the velvet pocket is sometimes heavier than when it left.
You deliberately drag your gaze up to Seokmin’s face, unhurried in pace, blinking lazily, almost sleepy. Jaw relaxed, and shoulders loose; your entire posture screams threat. Each of your crew needed a different captain when it came to reprimands. Soonyoung, eager to please and prove, suffered most with silent dismissals. Jihoon, the rare times he earned your ire, only responded to direct threats.
Seokmin’s master and executioner was guilt.
“Do you know how Wonwoo got his scar?” 
Schooling your face into a neutral expression, you wait for his response. Providing nothing, refusing to allow him comfort in this moment.
Seokmin doesn’t raise his gaze from his worn leather boots as he mumbles, “No.”
“It was my fault.” You share, picking your nails as the weight of your admission settles. “I thought I was helping a kid escape some cons. Told her she could follow us to town but after that, she was on her own. Turns out she was leading us into a deathtrap. One of her little gang took a swing at Wonwoo’s face and almost took his eye with him. Luckily, Wonwoo got him first.”
Apparently, this was one of the rare instances Seokmin had the sense to stay quiet.
“He’d thought it was a bad idea, but I tried to help her anyway. Didn’t listen to his advice that some things need to be left to the fates.”
Standing from your desk, you snag the bottle of whiskey resting on the cluttered bookshelf behind you. One of the few luxuries you afford yourself. Pouring two glasses, you slide one across your desk to the frightened man before continuing.
“I didn’t listen, and he got hurt.” Your tone so sharp it bites with blood stained teeth. “Wonwoo almost lost his eye, Min. Tell me, what kind of shooter would he be with one eye?”
“Not a very useful one?”
“Just about as useful as a spy you’d be without your tongue.”
Seokmin’s pale face balks at the implication. Hands wringing in his lap, you think he might piss himself.
“I’m not in the business of charity so I say this once: pull another stunt like you did today, and I’ll have Shua make you wish I killed you this morning.” Sitting back into the ancient leather chair, you jut your chin hauntingly. “Understand?”
“Yes, captain.”
“Get out.”
The door clicks shut before your next breath.
Your head drops with a heavy thud against the wooden trim of your seat, eyes sliding shut. Holding the stretch of your lungs as you inhale, attempting to do the same to the stiff muscles corded around your shoulders as a squeak alerts you to a new presence.
“That went well.”
You don’t have the patience for Wonwoo's taunting tonight. 
Sprawling in the now abandoned chair, he leisurely sips at Seokmin’s untouched glass of amber liquor before speaking again..
“I didn't almost lose my eye.”
“I fail to see how that's of importance.”
“Too many rumors flying around means someone will eventually ask for the truth.”
“Do let me know when they approach you, I’d pay good money to watch you stutter your way through the story.”
In truth, Wonwoo’s trademark scar came as the result of too much lager and a very short pier. You both were still fresh as spring lambs to the cruel world beyond the high walls of the marble palace, but quickly figured that anything you could use to your advantage needed exhaustion. The rumors you’ve stirred up around the jagged silver mark spanning half his face granted him a reputation beyond the edges of the ship, carried further by those who managed to escape your wrath.
Legends across the seas of the Viper’s second painted a terrifying character. Wonwoo’s quiet nature and intimidating features served to fan the flames further. He was mean with a blade, even meaner with a gun. Only those with a deathwish knowingly went toe to toe with him. Those unfortunate enough to cross his mark were dead before they could even hear the cock of the pistol. 
When Wonwoo doesn’t answer, you continue. “If anything, you should be thanking me.”
“Oh?”
“How many fights have you gotten in since I started telling people your scar was because you made a deal with a daemon?”
“Several.”
“Which is certainly less than otherwise.”
“Certainly.”
“And I don’t even get a thank you.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” He grovels, cocking his head forward. 
“I’m not in the mood for your poor humor.”
“You seemed to be generous with Seokmin.”
Knocking back the remnants of your cup before pouring another drink, you respond. “When he fucks up and I let Shua cut him to a million pieces he’ll see generous as I am, I’m good on my threats.”
That’s why they called you the Viper. Lethal. Calculating. Even when things don’t appear to be in your favor, luck seems to find you as a friend. Everything could be a lesson or another method for you to strengthen your alliances.
Even Seokmin’s fatal mistake of pulling Jeonghan on board would serve a purpose.
“Speaking of threats. What are we doing with those Krakens?”
“Eager to take a swing?” You jest, ignoring the sheen clinging to his lips.
“I have no interest in hearing them screaming at all hours for the next week. Kill Jeonghan, dump the other two and let the sharks claim them.”
“But then Jeonghan won’t see how we greet old friends. The other two are insurance.”
There isn’t enough time in the universe for you to deal Jeonghan what you owe him. The hunger to see him suffer would have terrified you in a past life. Even the hit on Seokmin this morning came with a swallowed trickle of sympathy after your rage cooled to a smolder, but no room for regret on the sea. Strike first and strike hard. You’ll pay for it all in the end and guilt wouldn’t spare you. 
But what grows in you now isn’t concerned with what you’ll face on the other side of the light. The poison you’ve collected in your veins for years pleads for the chance to fruit in his blood and stop his cold heart.
“You think he cares that much?”
“He’s captain, they’re his crew.”
“So you’d squirm if Seokmin got under the knife?” 
“Ask me in a few days.”
Silence finds the space between you like a familiar companion. Wonwoo is the last piece of home you have. You’d grown up together, run away together. Found each other again and again, no matter how long you ended up separated. A friend like him was difficult to come by when everyone had a price. Wonwoo’s turned out to be too high to ever hang you out to dry, and you the same.
“Tell Jihoon I want us at port by midday tomorrow.”
A humorless breath leaves his nose, “Oh, he’ll be thrilled.”
“I don’t pay him to be happy, I pay him to get my ship where I want it to go.”
You’re snappier than usual. The fury you feed in front of the crew protects you from the whispers and speculations. You’d won the vote fair and square when your processor had been ousted, a man nothing more than a relic from the old days, lazy and more than willing to let others do his dirty work while he soaked in riches. You’d sewed patches of discontent after years spent aboard, earning favors and friends along the way, mastering every job to be done on the once dingy ship. 
Tentative friendships were easily gained, but respect? Respect was on the bidding block everyday. It wasn’t enough to stain your hands whenever needed; the price for respect was razored words and padded pockets. 
Unfortunately, Wonwoo earned his fair share of both.
“When we get to the pier, we’re dropping Chan.”
“What?” Now anger heats his tongue.
“He’s not making progress.”
“Guns take time.”
“I've got enough mediocre gunslingers, I don’t need another.” Your focus is on the parchment again, searching for the cost the youngest member of your crew is having you foot. “He’s wasting ammunition and gunpowder as if it falls from the sky.”
“No.”
Occasionally Wonwoo argued with you, pressed you to see different perspectives but rarely did he disagree completely. Even more rare was flat out refusal.
“Pardon?”
“We’re not dropping Chan. He’s better than Vernon, and better than I was when I’d been doing it as long as he has.”
Your eyes slink to his, slow and purposeful. A lioness toying with her prey, gaze sharp as the knife you raised to his throat earlier that morning. Head tilting to the side, you open your mouth with a venomous smile.
“So when he catches up, I drop you?”
The threat is empty as the decanter perched on your desk, but there is always a sliver of Wonwoo’s heart that freezes at the possibility you’ll make good on it.
“You’ll never drop me.”
“After today, I might.” 
The charade drops in an instant. Eyes closing once again, you scrub your face until stars burst against the black backdrop of your lids. 
Nights like these rip open the place in your mind that rains endless questions. What if you remained in your little piece of the world? What if you accepted the frilly dress and silly parties? Allowed your father to make your marriage match as he saw fit for his own gains, a marriage to the cold Duke of Nas-Shost’s son or one of the brutish princes of Uspar. Perhaps you’d only be subjected to the violence of one man rather than dozens. Certainly there'd be less blood, fewer scars climbing your body like grotesque ivy. The warm arms of lavish life would embrace you, dull your mind till you were pliant as your peers. Produce babe after babe for whatever loveless man you’d been bound to, allowing nannies and wet nurses to care for your children while you indulged in cards and gossip like your mother.
Destined to be a mirror image of her dreamy smiles and distant eyes. A glance at your mother’s face showed her spirit miles away, blissful nothingness constantly clouded her features. Perhaps it was her own method of surviving your father. 
She mindlessly prattled in the few hours you spent with her as a child, typically spewing tattles of the neighbors and other society ladies as if it was of great importance. Laughing at her own quips and snarks that you couldn’t quite grasp the humor of. Only one conversation of substance ever occurred amongst dainty tea cups and porcelain plates of biscuits and cake. 
During one of the numerous lessons with your pious governess, Madam Atina, a hunched woman with a face like an old leather satchel; she’d hauntingly informed you everyone was born in the world with a cardinal flaw sealed in their soul. You’d run right to your mother, sharing the new knowledge with electrifying excitement. Her jeweled fingers brushed your hair as you sat in her lap, recalling the seven faults like it was an examination.
Your governess is right. She smiled.
What’s father’s? Pride. And yours? Envy. And me? You, my little bird, were born greedy as they come.
Barely seven at the time, you squealed as her fingers tickled your ribs, joyously unaware she bared your deepest secret so easily. But now, you understood why she always had a heavier hand in your upbringing than she had in your older sisters’. 
From the moment you left the womb, you’d wanted. Even with every luxury available, any whim granted, you’d always been greedy for a different sort of satisfaction. A different life. What use was having anything if you needed the approval of another to get it? Even as a child you’d resented the way your father had the final say on your mother’s choices. On your sisters’. On yours.
Imagination taking you to the stables every morning, pulling the shy stable boy from his chores to appease your need for a new identity. Finding freedom in the far edges of the palace gardens,  pretending you were soldiers on the front line between roses, using the bushes as cover before shooting make believe pistols at a fictitious enemy. Or two warring monarchs set to duel, branches becoming gilded swords as the day lilies provided their rapt attention. Sometimes you played pirates, forcing each other to walk the plank before breaking into maniacal giggles at the ridiculous accents you donned by the crystal lake.
The garden’s behind the estate remained a stage until your mother had you moved out of the nursery at twelve and into a private room down the hall to prepare you for balls and parties. New lady’s maids combed your hair up and tailored the hem of your dress down to brush the ground, signaling to everyone in court you were now of age. And then you were tasked with mastering a new kind of performance. The type that ends with your hands, neck, and crown covered in diamonds and your name on a contract to the highest bidder.
You and Wonwoo didn’t play anymore after that.
But now, even as misery loomed like a cloud over your head, at least you were alive with the knowledge that you created your own destiny. Now, the entire world is your stage, the gods your audience.
Wonwoo crosses to the door with a few long strides, the shuffle of his feet intentional to alert you to his movement.
“Make sure Hoshi checks on Seokmin. Don’t need his face getting infected.” You mumble into your glass, attention on the flame jumping from the black candle to the left of your desk. “And no food for our guests.”
“How long?”
“Three days, longer if they start fighting. Only enough water for them to stay alive.” 
Wonwoo’s exit is silent but his absence prickles the back of your neck, threatening to rip you to shreds. You try to focus on the pop and crack of the fire burning in the hearth across the room. How your throat burns raw with another swig of booze. Even the habitual press of your thumb across the silken abalone handle of your revolver does nothing to numb the world inside your head.
Waves crash below the windows of your office as you cut through the endless sea, pounding surf singing their nightly hymn of the souls you’ve banished from this world. The haunting tune echoes louder with the knowledge that their master is shackled in the belly of your ship. An atonal ballad filled with the ghostly rattle of the chains crossed around his wrists and throat.
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Ventparsk
Sunlight glares from the vast waves, the harsh beams attempting to blind you, as an infinite blue sky supplies nary a cloud of reprieve from its brutal warmth. You’d never speak ill of a scarce blessing such as the weather of today. Glittering open sea as far as the eye could see, not a single blip in sight save for the dark mountain rising from the horizon.
Your crew has stripped their torsos down to their scarred and inked skin, only keeping the dignity of pants as they trudge back and forth below your watch from the quarterdeck. Braving the threat of a scarlett backside rather than risk fainting over the sides of the ship and into the depths. The roughspun linen of your undershirt tears across your skin as wind breathes and snaps into the white sails above, propelling the vessel closer to the crowded harbor of Ventparsk.
Weeks at sea had depleted the stock of provisions and riled the crew. Only so much entertainment to be had when surrounded by nothing but endless ocean and air. Even you found the monotony of the days tiresome despite the never ending responsibilities of being captain. Drinking and merriment kept everyone content enough, card games as well before Soonyoung inevitably ran his mouth directly into someone’s fists. He might have maintained a tight ship under your command but when everyone gathered at night to loosen their limbs and cheer their minds, a hit on Soonyoung was fair play. Sometimes encouraged. 
But the typical vices were no longer keeping their grumbles quelled. The gash on Seokmin’s cheek only fanned the flames higher. It was understood why you dealt him that hand, but their fondness for the newer member of your crew bred unconscious resentment. You’re not a physician but even you knew if you let the disease of discontent fester, it’ll kill the entire body.
The cure was simple enough. A few days wreaking havoc across dank gambling dens, cramped taverns, and numerous brothels in the great pleasure city would easily alleviate the tension rankling on board. Ventparsk opens its doors like an old friend to anyone with a few coins in their purse and your latest voyage ensured each of your crew would be welcomed like an emperor.
Ventparsk marina is a hodgepodge of every style ship and boat imaginable. Steel military ships from the cold north of Uspar tower above humble longships no doubt belonging to eastern traders of Truyso. Even oared ships from the dark days speckle through the thick rows of docks, Proera’s trademark. Your ship resembles one of the military fleet from Nas-Shost, swift and agile unlike the large square-rigged ships flying the blue and silver of the Islearain navy visible on the opposite end of the marina.
A cacophony of colors sail high above. The privateers and pirates aren’t stupid enough to announce their colors so boldly, but the armies foam at the mouth for a chance to intimidate the easily impressed. Amongst the other sheets flying in the wind, you recognize ally as well as foe. The sullen gray of the Usparian army here, a sheet rich maroon from Proera’s northern waters there. A rare flash of orange announces the Gulls, a band of Shostian mercenaries, are a long way from home. Even the maroon flag of the Seven Sirens flies high. If the Krakens had a ship to sail, the royal purple complete with a white circle and vertical slash would snap in the wind above all others. Cockiness bordering on stupidity, a bold challenge to anyone willing to follow them out of the harbor borders. But that tacky piece of cotton had been returned to the depths of the sea, finally resting where a Leviathan belongs.
The lush green flag with a golden ouroboros is hidden in the navigation room of the Hydra, far away from any prying eyes that may look your way. Men may be eager to have a public pissing contest, but you appreciated the fine art of minding your own business. The element of surprise and stealth could never be undervalued, only underappreciated. 
The hodgepodge of pirate crews, merchants, and soldiers neighboring one another along the decrepit docks only exist in the assumed neutrality of the city. If you’re caught fighting in Ventparsk, breaking the delicate truce that exists within its borders, there is no trial. Your entire crew is sentenced to hang as gull food above the gate that separates the docks from the city; staked with an iron rod through one end and out the other. And anyone is willing to sell out those that defy the rules, eager to abide by the code for the guarantee of a good time without the cold sweat of a knife to the back. 
After securing the Hydra, a portly man with watery eyes and a thick mustache waddles aboard. The worn olive green of his wrinkled uniform means he’s the customs master of this section of the marina.
He sidles up to Wonwoo, assuming his status of captain based on who can say what. Frustration lights a flame to simmer your blood, but it's better this way. The old men who run the ports won’t respond to a female captain, and if they do they’ll rip you off before finding a reason to banish you back to the open water.
“Cargo?”
“Nothing to sell.”
“Crew?”
“20.”
“Captives?”
“No, sir.”
“What’s the purpose of your visit?”
Wonwoo gives a lazy charming smile, “Just some men looking to enjoy the unique pleasures your lovely city has to offer.”
“Seems like you have something already on board.”
The desire to send a bullet through his skull swells riots but you reign her in. Last thing you need is to get your crew barred from the island city. Wonwoo would kill you himself.
Ignoring his comment, Wonwoo tosses the bag of coins at the officer. The old man fumbles to catch them but his assistant, a nimble tawny skinned boy who can’t be more than eleven, snags the jumbling coins before they hit the deck. In silence, they count and mark the toll in their book before smiling at the crew.
“Welcome to Ventparsk.”
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You’ve tasked Wonwoo and his first mate, Seungkwan, with stocking up at the trading post. The younger man could barter with anyone and you only trust Wonwoo with the extra store of coins. It’ll take them the better part of the day to haul the crates down the docks and oversee the other crew organize them in the hold.
The night crew remains on board, dozing in hammocks strung between heavy cannons below deck in the berth to avoid the blaring sun. Jihoon remains on the quarterdeck, straw hat tucked low to cover his eyes; content to stay in his corner of the ship while others explore, never one to be tempted by the pleasure houses or bidding halls. The rest of the crew looks at him with pity for not lacking the desire to hand over his time to the intoxicating pulse of the city, but you know better. 
Back home, Jihoon has a lady. He hasn’t seen her in years but sends her a stiff share of his wage at the end of every job. The few letters he’s received during his time on your ship are kept in a wooden cigar box tucked under scrolls of parchment in the navigation room just above your own quarters. You’re only aware because the box was stashed with an abandoned codex you’d needed regarding the islands dappling the eastern waters of Truyso. In haste, the small wooden trunk clunked to the floor, spilling several envelopes stamped with a teal wax seal. Skimming the first few words of swirling script, the woman was rather…descriptive in how much she missed him. Jihoon chose that moment to shuffle into the space, fuming as you gapped over his private collection of personalized smut. 
Leaving the treasure of your heart in his capable hands, you stride through the rusted iron gate welcoming you to the much tamer southern district of Ventparsk. 
Rickety buildings line the streets, each advertising their services. Thick crowds bubble out of rowdy taverns and into the street, patrons unashamed to imbibe so heavily under the midday sun. The mismatched symphony of music pouring from open windows and crevices in the slats to greet them, seduce them back inside. Scantily clad brothel workers curl around banisters and press out windows, beckoning customers with a curl of a finger and twitch of the lips. The independents work hard to lure those with less pocket change to the shaded alleyways for a quick tryst against the dirty walls. Perched on the corners of cross streets, conmen rob those stupid enough to get tangled in their cheap card tricks.
The kid pressing past you barely makes it a foot before you snatch their wrist in an iron grip. Whipping the little pickpocket back to your person, you twist their arm at an angle that’ll force it to break if they so much as breathe the wrong way. Anyone looking, and no one does, will see a dotting sister ushering their younger sibling through the crush of the crowd.
“Where I’m from, thieves lose their hands.” You snarl down at the grubby face glaring up at you.
“I didn’t take anything!” She cries, voice thick with faux tears under the tattered hood of her cloak.
Your other hand reaches into her pocket to retrieve the polished silver dagger usually kept strapped to your side, flicking it into view between you. The cheap piece of steel was worth next to nothing. Best way to keep your coin is to let a thief think they bested you by giving them an easy target, too hard to resist.
“Liars lose their tongues.”
The fury at being caught brands her features. She’s barely skin and bones, moth eaten velvet cloak weighing more than her but blazing in her eyes is fire. The same fire that burned in your own as you learned the ways of the streets when you’d first left the cushion of your father’s kingdom. 
If you rat her out to the city guard she’ll be used as fish food. Or worse, one of the brothels will bid on her bond.
“Next time you wanna lift something, think about why it’s so easy before letting your hands get sticky.”
Retching her hand away, you brush her to the side, refusing to look at her face as you slip back into the crowd. She’ll find the coin you slipped in her pocket quick enough.
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Each room of the Lion’s Den is draped in tacky swatches of gold and all variations of red. In this particular keep, a plush mattress is perched in front of the blazing fireplace. The garnet velvet bedspread trimmed with gold tassels clashes with the blush pillow cases, both jarring against the white oak bed frame and sheets of pale silk floating down from the bars. But the design of the room interests Wonwoo far less than the woman who inhabits it.
“How’s our little friend?” Yeseul calls over her shoulder. 
She’s perched at her vanity, using the light of an oil lantern to carefully fix the greasy smudges of red staining her lips. Wonwoo isn’t sure why she’s bothering with it. He’s paid for the entire night, she might as well remove wretched stuff. Laying back in the satin sheets of her bed, he lets one arm prop up his head as he watches the woman he’s visited for years tsk over her reflection. The swirl of smokey incense hazing her figure.
Yeseul was a few years older than he, versed in the ways of the world and determined to educate the once bright eyed boy he’d been. She’d imparted him with the knowledge of how to pleasure a woman even though he’d only fallen into bed with one other person. Taught the value of secrets in this world. Most importantly, Yeseul was the one who let Wonwoo know that the desire and devotion he feels towards Y/N was love, not just friendship.
“As pleasant as a spring breeze.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Wonwoo.”
“That gunk doesn’t suit you either but I settle for it.”
“You don’t pay enough for me to remove it.”
“And that’s my fault? You try to send me back with half every time I visit.”
“You’re more of a friend than a customer at this point.”
“You’re growing soft.”
“Mingyu says the same.”
“He wrote you?”
“Bribed a guard to get a letter out. Probably had to bribe him to write it too since he never learned to read.”
Wonwoo doesn’t ask if Mingyu will get out of the Iron Isle. Even with the guarantee of a fair trial, it takes years, sometimes decades. More men die waiting than in the gallows at the base of the prison. 
Yeseul isn’t a fool but she is a romantic. Consumed too many novels where ill suited love wins over all and anyone can be together if they just believe it. All wrapped up in a couple hundred pages. Her way of dealing with the ugly truths of the world. Yeseul is chained to the Lion’s Den the same way her lover is chained in prison. The same way Wonwoo’s heart will always be chained to his princess. Useless in hoping to be free.
“But she’s well?”
“A stretch of the word but I guess as content as she can be.”
“So you still haven’t told her.”
“If I was, do you think she’d allow me to run to your bed?”
“With how quiet you were earlier, I assumed it went poorly.”
“It would go poorly. Especially now.”
“Perhaps it's best to give her time.”
Wonwoo knows time isn’t what she needs. The only hope for anything beyond swift rejection would be a miracle performed by the gods themselves. If he were a smarter man, a stronger man, he’d stay away. Wouldn’t submit himself to the torture of her presence, her trust and reliance. But he’s not. Wonwoo is weak in all the ways it matters when it comes to Y/N. Ever since she walked into the stables when they’d both were barely knee high and demanded he submit himself to her friendship. He’s listened to every command since.
Few things in the world were certain but the one constant Wonwoo relied on was the sure way to lose Y/N was giving himself permission to want. Want her the way he has since they were teenagers, running away from curses of her father and his servitude and towards the unknown. Since she’d pulled him down into the hay in that dilapidated barn after too many swigs of the wine swiped from a merchant stall. Wonwoo never saw the smile she’d flashed him that night again. Bright and hopeful, a little shy as he covered her mouth with his own. Now the only stretch of Y/N’s lips carried a coldness, the gleam of teeth sadistic and sinister.
Hope is a fragile thing. Like a blooming spring flower just before the last frost, or a house of cards. Delicate. It has no place in this world he’s landed in. So Wonwoo doesn’t let himself hope for a chance to be free of the love in his heart. Accepts that in this life, there was never a chance for him to have Y/N the way he wants. Because the way he wants her fundamentally opposes who she is.
So Wonwoo allows himself the memories of before. Before they became Serpents, matching stains of ink at the base of their skulls. Before Jeonghan snatched her away; the scars marring her body nothing compared to what he’d done to her mind. Before Y/N found her way back, to him, to the crew, to the world of the living. 
Memories of the palace and her uncanny talent for finding him wherever he was on the grounds. The way she snatched him away from whatever task he’d been charged with to play her silly games, allowing him to be a boy instead of an indenture. How she snuck into the servants quarters and into his bed the night Jeonghan finally came to visit the kingdom. When she called him her friend for the first time. When she’d let Wonwoo hold her to his chest, warming them both against the frigid air after laying each other bare.
“Time won’t change anything.”
Wonwoo can never have anything more than what he has now. So he settles his heart at Y/N’s feet, and lets his body find distraction in another.
Always privy to his moods, Yeseul crosses back to where he lies. Perching herself in his lap, her ebony robe splits open to show the creamy skin of her stomach, the soft swell of her breast peeking out from behind honey waves of her hair, long neck split with the ruby choker all girls at this pleasure house wear. 
Maybe in another life, Wonwoo would still be a stablehand. In that life, Y/N would have married Jeonghan and the childhood friendship between a stable boy and the youngest princess of Iaslera was nothing but forgotten memories.
Yeseul’s finger traces from his lips to his chin, following the dip of his scar to his ear. It had taken him years to stop flinching when someone touched it, the sting of that rusted blade still haunting him. When her nail scrapes the hollow of his throat, Wonwoo shivers for an entirely new reason.
Flipping her beneath him, Yeseul’s flit of laughter tickles Wonwoo’s lips as he claims her mouth.
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“Another.” You beckon the woman behind the mahogany counter, tilting your empty cup her way.
“What’s a lady like you doing in a place like this?” A disconnected voice murmurs too close to your ear, a waft of booze and snuff slipping around your cheek.
Rolling your eyes, the same dagger the orphan girl tried to claim is in your hand and pressed to the soft wood in a second. The presence behind you disappears when it catches the lantern light. 
The Twin Star is one of the better taverns in this part of the city. Drinks are cheap enough, other patrons keep their heads down and the barmaids tend to turn a blind eye when one needs to implement less than friendly means to ward off drunkards.
“Keep it up and I’ll have to cut you off.” Inri snarks but fills your cup with brandy all the same.
“You’re a cruel woman.” You mutter, cradling the cool glass to your chest.
“They say the same about you.”
“I’m flattered.” you mumble with a mock salute, loopy smile splitting your mouth.
She leaves you with a sigh. You’ve been here all afternoon, hoping to drown your dread at the bottom of a bottle. So far, you’re failing.
For the first time in years, you have no desire to return to your beloved vessel. The warm fondness for the Hydra replaced with frigid unease. A drunken stupor is the perfect excuse not to go back, at least for the night. Even with the unbending laws of the island, an unaccompanied woman roaming the streets of Ventparsk was unlikely to make ten paces before she ended up pushed into an alley. One under the influence of several hefty pours of whiskey might make five if she’s lucky.  
“There’s my favorite captain.”
You’re in no mood for company. Soonyoung must have been born under unlucky stars. 
“Can a woman not enjoy a drink in peace?”
He’s in the chair next to you before you can object, signaling Inri to bring him a glass as well.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you this drunk before.”
“What are you doing here, Hosh?”
Soonyoung has the courtesy to look bashful. Just down the street is the theater you know he favors, the Temple, with dark mahogany walls and swaths of dark blue silk curtains hiding what takes place beyond the doors. The shanty building housed dozens of artists, dancers, and singers. Acrobats and fire tamers. Entertainers and actors. He had been one of them before you'd lured him away with promises of adventure and riches unknown to a poor merchant’s son. Everytime you stop at the isle he walks right back home to greet his brothers and sisters.
“In the neighborhood.”
“Your family?”
“My ma is finally speaking to me.” He lights up. “Something about a fortune teller telling her to let go of old grudges or some other nonsense. But my sister is starting to do high ropes without a net! And my younger brother, San, he’s gotten better with the knife throwing and—
Soonyoung continues to ramble as you tuck your smile into your cup. At least one person has a good relationship with their family. If someone asked, you couldn’t confidently say which of your sisters were still breathing; only aware your mother and father were alive from the whispers of Iaslerian merchants complaining about royal levies to pay for the queen’s jewels. 
“One of the younger kids showed me some slight of hand with a coin and it looked alot like the ones we lifted from those traders in Uspar.”
Swallowing a mouth full of liquor you stay quiet. The little bastard just had to be one of Soonyoung’s kin because why not? The gods had a strange sense of humor.
“Strange.”
“I thought so too. Probably just a coincidence.”
“Probably.”
“Would my captain do me the honor of escorting her back to the ship?” 
Pointedly ignoring the knowing smile Soonyoung flashes, you take the arm he offers.
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Nightmares
The three days in Ventparsk pass quickly. More booze, a tumble with a nameless man at the Winter Garden, and enough snuff to kill a horse provides a blissful mindless haze. You even managed a quick scrub down at one of the bath houses. Soaking in the heated tub for hours, muscles loose and pliant from the herbal steam and hot stones. Jeonghan’s rotting body in the moldy damp brig of the Hydra is nearly forgotten. 
Nearly.
Dreams always have a way of reminding us of the realities we wish to forget.
“You’re a dead man, Jeonghan.”
The bullet is screaming to make a home in between his ribs. Every muscle in your body pleading for the same. Sink the shot in Jeonghan’s heart and be free from him forever.
“Take them to the brig.” You instruct Jun. 
“Never could just get on with it, could you?”
The next sound from Jeonghan’s mouth is a shrill scream as blood gushes from his thigh. It swirls with the sea water still dripping from his soaked clothes, scarlett inking through the growing puddle, opaque tendrils soaking into the wood.
“Shua’s gonna have fun with you.”
Finally skating on the waves of the vast ocean, you descend into hell.
The consuming stench of stagnant water and mold invades your nostrils as you transverse through the cargo hold to reach the brig. A rat squeaks as it scurries past, looking for its next meal no doubt. You loathe this part of the ship. Too deep, not enough exits, no clear path up and out. Just another gift courtesy of Jeonghan.
Three bodies hang from their hands, bound up and over their heads, feet barely brushing the ground as the sway with rhythm of the tide. Burlap bags obscure their faces but you know which lithe form belongs to him. 
Shua sits at his desk, a collection of mismatched knives organized in neat lines like soldiers prepared for battle on one side. Jars of different poisons clink against one another in the wooden tray in the middle, the rainbow array of liquids each lapping at the sides of the vial for the chance to escape. On the far corner rests crude torture devices he’s collected over the years. Thorned strips of leather, several cat-o-nine-tails, and a lump of metal looking like a fruit with a knob attached at the narrow end.
The entire aura of Joshua’s corner of the ship screams anguish. A slaughterhouse for those unfortunate enough to stumble his way. It’s why no one visits him of their own volition. Not that he seems to mind, more than content to study the ways of the body than talk to one.
You take a seat across from the man dangling in the center of the room, nodding to Joshua to remove the sack from Jeonghan’s head.
Dark circles shadow his bloodshot eyes, cheeks sullen and pale, chapped lips bleeding. Nearly four days on board without food and possibly longer before they were rescued from the hunk of drift wood they’d been floating on while waiting to die has certainly done a number on him. You’d ordered Shua to provide the barest sips of water, just enough to keep them on this side of consciousness.
A metal goblet brushes against Jeonghan’s lips, urging him to tip his head back and swallow the cool liquid. Gulping down the contents without a thought, Shua refills it as fast as he can from a crystal pitcher. After a few shuddering breaths, another full cup is brought to his mouth and he downs it as well.
Idiot.
When Jeonghan eyes finally adjust to the pale light of the solitary lantern illuminating the cramped space, he sees you. Raising your chin, you know he won’t resist the opportunity to try and knock you down a peg despite his compromised position.
“Just couldn’t stay away.”
Joshua busies himself with arranging the necessary odds and ends on an empty wooden tray. He’s meticulous in his grisly craft, hands sure and perfunctory. The jostle of metal fills the room as he sets down the curated set on a stool next where you sit.
Not deigning to respond, you simply flash a sweet smile. The kind of smile a girl throws a man she wants something from, woefully out of place in the dark room you're standing in. But that’s precisely what throws Jeonghan off.
Standing, you snag one of the smaller double sided blades glimmering like a prized jewel amongst the collection. The ring at the bottom sits loosely around your pointer finger as you spin it round and round. Your steps are slow and calculated as you circle him, surveying his form from head to toe. Jeonghan is smart enough to try and keep his eyes on you but the metal collar around his neck prevents him from turning his head as you round him. Someone had the sense to remove his shirt before tying him up. Even if the shirt he came with was tattered to gossamer shreds, the fabric would find a use somewhere amongst the crew. 
A clammy sheen glosses his dull skin, the ring of red around his bound wrists blistered and raw. Curls of dark hair stick to Jeonghan’s forehead and the column of his neck, matted to his scalp with sea water, sweat, and blood. A spray of dark bruises along his ribs are slowly healing, no doubt from whatever destroyed his ship. They labor his breath, his chest barely moving with the shallow swallows of air. The dark stain of blood is dried near black around the hole in his left thigh.
As you stand back in front of him, toe to toe, your gazes meet. Frigid steel tip of the dagger dips into the valley of his throat before you trace it down his sternum to the soft flesh of his belly. Muscles twitch as he clenches away from the sharp bite of the blade, freezing his breath to avoid pressing into it. 
Slowly blinking you don’t turn away as you ask, “Shua, how long did you say it takes for the draught to take effect?” 
“At least a few minutes, but on an empty stomach much less. He should already be feeling it start to kick in.”
“Do you Jeonghan?” Digging the knife in the soft flesh just above his naval, “Can you feel it?”
Shua had explained the effects when he brought the vial to your office. An oily concentration of some exotic herb from the deepest reaches of the Proera, tasteless with only the faintest smell of damp earth. Typically used as a mild sedative, fond amongst those looking to see beyond the veil of reality and into the curtain between worlds. But a heavy enough dose tortures whoever ingests it with terrifying visions, nightmares come to life. Not fatal in the slightest but after the walls melt and the person in front of you turns into a demon, one might wish it was. Unknowingly, Jeonghan took a large enough dose to incapacitate a third of your crew.
An emotion you never imagined he felt takes root on his face. Eyes wild as he focuses on the copper cup now sitting at the corner of Shua’s desk, before they flash back to yours. You can see his brain turning, attempting to decipher what you’ve slipped him, how long he has before entering the unknown.
Jeonghan’s shuddering breath puffs against your cheeks, a small whiff of the herbaceous tincture carried along it. His feet roughly scrape against the floor as he tries to maintain his footing, chains around his wrist and neck relaxing for a moment before pulling taunt again as his damaged leg buckles under his weight.
Jeonghan quakes with the effort to remain quiet. Even with poison flooding his veins, he clings to years of training to resist succumbing fright. But nothing has prepared him for this.
A crack in the facade spreads soon enough. Broken pleas force past gnarled lips, chest heaving as he struggles to inhale. Soon he’s nothing more than a child lost in a crowd. Frantic, panicked, desperate. 
Horror consumes his face, the whites of his eyes visible as his eyebrows arch to his hairline, mouth opening to scream. Air rushes from his lungs as he wails, thrashing in his shackles without concern for the way the bitter metal rips into the flesh of his wrists and neck. 
You’ve already pocketed the knife that was pressed into his stomach. No satisfaction in killing him when he’s out of his mind, but watching him descend into madness will bring its own pleasure.
“What the fuck did you do to me?”
Turning to return to your seat, he screams again, “What did you give me?”
Jeonghan’s voice is shredded and raw already.
In the corner, Shua is rapt with macabre attention. Carefully jotting down notes in his journal for later examination. If one person on the crew terrified you it was the fawn eyed man sitting next to you. Being handy with a weapon was nothing when someone knew how to destroy your spirit by barely lifting a finger, dead before you knew what happened.
You observe as Jeonghan’s expression grows distant. Fear festers along the surface, bubbling under his skin. Muscles flex and twitch painfully. Ugly fat beads well in Jeonghan’s eyes to spill down his cheeks, wads of snot dripping from his nose. Splotchy red patches bloom across his pale skin, fevered flesh prickled with goosebumps. The rusted shackles bite into his skin again and again as he attempts to shake free, nearly strangling himself in his effort. Silent pleas for relief, for mercy from whatever phantom of his subconscious haunts him now.
The two other men in the back of the room thrash in their chains as well, bashing their skulls back and forth to cast off the hoods over their heads. Frenzied as their brave captain’s curdled screams pierce their ears.
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The nightmares chasing Jeonghan follow you up to your room that night.
“My little bird tried to leave the nest, did she?” Your father snarls.
The piece of cloth tied around your head doesn’t allow you to answer beyond muffled groans as you struggle.
“Perhaps I should teach you what happens when a bird leaves its cage.”
“Captain!”
You wake with a gasp, the sound of gunfire and cannons shaking your core. Jun stands in your doorway, soaked to his skin with soot covering half his face.
“Captain, we’re under attack!”
The deck is a flurry of activity. Bodies running to and fro, some headed below for the gun deck to return fire. Walls of water pour from the sky, obscuring the view beyond the corners of your ship. In the distance, flashes of light from cannons on the ship attacking yours is the only indicator of a presence beyond the moon and tide. They’re running diagonal to your port side, that much is clear. The mainsail is shredded to pieces over head, damp canvas whipping from cruel winds. The Hydra won’t outrun the ship attacking, the only end is to fight.
Scrambling to the quarterdeck, you join Jihoon at the wheel. He does his best to steer clear of enemy range, careful to maintain momentum you can’t afford to lose. 
“Cut the wheel!”
“Are you crazy?”
“They’ve got too much speed, they can’t turn. Cut the damn wheel!”
Jihoon launches the wheel clockwise, shifting the rudders to turn starboard. The attacking vessel continues their path straight, unable to correct in time to cut you off as you slip behind them. But a second too late you both realize another ship lies in wait. 
The second enemy ship attacks from behind, capitalizing on the attention monopolized by the first ship. The crew launches grappling hooks tangling around the Hydra’s rigging for them to swing aboard. They flood the deck like ants emerging from their hill, easily out numbering your crew.
You pick off two swiftly, bullets wedged deep in their skulls the second their feet land on the quarter deck. Rain stings your eyes, blurring your surroundings. Friend and foe indecipherable as you jump to the fray on the main deck. 
Chaos runs free as blows are exchanged back and forth. It’s impossible to tell in the crowd of bodies who has fallen and who remains below deck to continue cannon fire.
Wonwoo and Soonyoung are back to back, facing off against five enemy fighters. Soonyoung nimbly dodges the swords aimed at his throat, returning his own killing blows with incredible fluidity. Charges of gunpowder sting the air as Wonwoo deals his own damage, sinking the shells into hearts and bellies before moving to the next.
Whipping around, you catch sight of Seokmin pinned down against the main mast, a giant of a man exhausting him with a sword. On reflex, you duck under a swinging arm as you charge forward. Sinking your dagger between the oaf’s shoulder blades you drag down with all your strength, ripping through the muscles tethered to his spine. The scorching gush of blood slips between your fingers, freeing the handle from your grip. Kicking out a leg, you land your foot along the back of his knee and bring him down. Over his head your eyes meet Seokmin’s. You barely catch the flash of horror on his face before the crack of a fist lands against your temple. 
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Blood and rain and sea water soaks the deck, nearly sending Wonwoo to his knees. The wretch of death fills his nose, sulfurous gunpowder and bile sharpening his mind. He’s surrounded on all sides, the glint of steel flashing as lightning splits the sky. The teeth of a sword split his side open from the bottom of his ribs to his navel. Wonwoo can tell the damage won’t kill him but he’ll have a hell of a time recovering. The sting only dulled by the rush of a fight flooding his veins. 
Soonyoung is on his left, picking off enemies one by one, dodging the most damning blows and weaponizing their momentum to his benefit. Wonwoo would stop to watch if he wasn’t busy preserving his own life. 
Pushing his way to the center of the ship, he spots the door below deck fly open; Jeonghan and the other two prisoners ushered out by a small group armed to their teeth. In the same second, Wonwoo locates Y/N in his periphery; just in time to watch her crumple from a cheap punch to her head.
Rage thunders through Wonwoo’s veins. In a flurry, he cuts his way to the main mast, prepared to kill whoever he needs to. Seokmin rips his knife out of the person who knocked Y/N out but another of the enemy crew manages to drag her body over to the side where their ship is latched to the Hydra. They rush to get her aboard their ship, sensing the change in tide of the fight behind them. 
Clearly they’d been hoping to have the entire ordeal dealt with swiftly, not prepared for the force the Serpents are capable of. Minghao is already working to cut the ship away from the Hydra, nimble feet carrying him along the thin bulwark as he slashes the ropes snaring them.
Jeonghan and his cellmates are already securely on the opposite side of the gangplank, but the man holding Y/N’s body hasn’t crossed yet. If Wonwoo can provide enough of a delay, then Jihoon can get the Hydra back to the open sea. 
In this moment, Wonwoo decides to commit the most ill-considered act of bravery he’s ever mustered. Launching himself on to the enemy ship, he lands with a thud on their deck, guns blazing. He’s able to pick off one, two, four crew members before they realize what’s happening. Bodies dropping to the floor around him in quick succession. 
A final shot rings out before his ammunition runs dry and he switches to his dual swords strapped to his back. Wonwoo swings in wide arches, forcing his opponents back and away from the side of the ship to avoid the tips of his blades. Using the brief reprieve, he turns to kick the plank away, sending it to the crevice between ships just in time for Jihoon to tear free. Leaving his captain and her captor on the Hydra, and Wonwoo marooned with the enemy.
Saying a silent prayer, Wonwoo turns back to the crowd of what are no doubt Krakens, only managing to sink his sword's edge into one more before he’s overwhelmed.
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A Tale of Two Ships
The Leviathan
“Wonwoo, Wonwoo, Wonwoo,” Jeonghan says, shaking his head. “Always running to save the princess, aren’t you?”
Standing before him, Jeonghan resembles a rotten pile of horse shite. Y/N’s torture strung him out, made him weak and unstable. Wonwoo watched the strain in his muscles, the moisture on his brow, the labor of his breath. Fresh, angry halos circle his neck and wrists, blisters drying and scabbing to an ugly assembly of yellows and browns.
With his hands shackled above his head and his feet chained to the floor, Wonwoo attempts to calm his breathing. Jeonghan wants him worked up, wants him to slip and play right into his hand. 
 “What she sees in you is beyond me. Bastard stable boy, with nothing to his name except a whore mother and drunk father.”
In four beats, hold four beats, out four beats, hold another four. Repeat.
“She’d sell your soul the second it became advantageous for her. You know that, right?”
In four beats, hold four beats, out four beats, hold another four. Repeat.
Wonwoo desperately tries to zone in on the lantern, to let his mind wander in the vast recesses of emptiness. Anything to spare him from the lies Jeonghan spews.
“I know you love her. Pathetic how obvious it is, Wonwoo. Reminds me of a story actually. Once upon a time, there was a stable boy who fell in love with a princess. Now the princess was clever and made the stable boy believe they were equals, friends even. Can you believe that?”
Jeonghan rounds to face Wonwoo, a sickening smirk spoiling his face.
“She knew the stable boy cared for her and would do whatever he could to protect her. So when it was time for her to stop playing make believe, she let the stable boy take her punishment. She let him die for her and the princess never lost a second to sleep. Because the princess, no matter how she sullied herself, knew he wasn’t worth the dirt under her fingernails.”
In an effort to stay quiet, Wonwoo grinds his teeth so hard they are on the verge of shattering. 
The defiant tilt to Wonwoo’s chin sends a flash of fury across the shorter man’s face before a serpentine smile curls on his lips.
“You don’t need to speak, stable boy.” Plucking a knife from his belt, Jeonghan flashes it into Wonwoo’s view. “But you will scream.”
And Wonwoo does.
The Hydra
Crowded around the large oak table of the Hydra’s navigation room, Jihoon, Soonyoung, Jun, and you spread over the atlas of the world. Attempting to decipher what Jeonghan’s plan for Wonwoo proves to be more difficult than anticipated. Even more so when you refuse to provide details on why Jeonghan would stage such an elaborate effort to capture you. 
Your crew knows he’s disavowed and wanted by the Atterast, Nas-Shost’s military. They know you’re the reason why but you’d carefully smothered any true details of how you and Wonwoo were involved. Rumors of Jeonghan being a disgruntled lover, while half true, were enough to satiate their curiosity.
“He hates Wonwoo but he hates me more. If his desire is to torture me then he’ll leave Wonwoo alive somewhere I’ll never get him.”
“Iron Isle?”
“Do you think he plans to have himself arrested too?”
“Nas-Shost is unstable. Would he take advantage of that?”
“They’ll kill him before he speaks.”
“He’s in no shape to attempt crossing to Uspar or Truyso.”
“What about Iaslera?”
Iaslera.
Jeonghan isn’t a fool but he is ambitious and vindictive. If your father promised him something in exchange for his original target then Iaslera is a likely place for him to go. And Jeonghan knows you’ll fall right into his hands.
The knife you’ve been spinning into the wood grain digs a fraction deeper.
“How many days till Iaslera?” You ask.
“With the damage…at least five.” Jihoon breaths.
“Five?”
“At least. And that’s assuming it’ll only take us three to patch the hole in the sail and get it rigged again.”
Five days. Wonwoo will be Jeonghan’s captive for five days. 
“Set course for Iaslera.” You bark, “And I want every spare hand helping patch that hole!”
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The days of skidding across the ocean proved fruitful. If you didn’t keep yourself busy then a rut would wear into the wooden planks of your office from the endless pacing. 
If Jeonghan is truly in your father’s court then you owe the crew an explanation of what exactly the Pearl Palace of Iaslera holds. You were no artist, but luck shined on you once again with Minghao. Even the barest memories regarding the servant’s quarters or the stables were included. He sketched every detail, every crevice you could remember with shocking clarity. Reworking sections over and over until the proportions equaled out. Finally, the drawings resembled your home.
Home.
No, not exactly home. Maybe when you’d been a child, when the pearl and silver tiara felt like magic instead of a lead weight; eager to spend days lounging in the library, mind lost to far off lands and tall tales; riding along the familiar beaches, outpacing your chaperone; hiding in the gardens with Wonwoo, playing whatever new game your imagination supplied you two with.
Iaslera was the place you grew up, but the sandy shores and rolling hills only held beauty, not familiarly, the sleek marble walls bearing no warmth or fondness. It wasn’t the place you longed for when out at sea or deep inland. 
Home is the worn wood and white sails of the Hydra. Home is your mismatched crew of criminals, ex-soldiers, circus performers, and farmhands. Home is a stable boy who has been by your side since you decided Iasleria was home no longer.
Hours spent in the navigation room, your best fighters and strategists circled on either side of the heavy table, scanning the map detailing each floor of the palace. 
“What do you know about the guard rotation?”
“Nothing. Princess, remember?”
“Hard to forget. Can’t believe we didn’t realize before.”
“The way you strut about the deck did always seem particularly royal.” Jun scratches his chin, as if picturing you flouncing about with a tiara on your head.
“Would you like to know what princesses do when they’re angry?”
“Huff their nose in the air?” Soonyoung laughs. 
“Maybe if I didn’t have a gun.”
“The guards.” Jihoon reminds.
“I don’t know. My father knows we’re coming and he’s cocky. He’ll probably let us walk right in and assume we’re weak.”
“Sounds like an idiot.”
“So if we walk right in, what do we do?”
“Kill them.” Enea offers from her end of the table.
“If he hasn’t killed Wonwoo already he could have him hidden.”
“If he’s cocky enough to let us walk through the front door, do you really think he’d go through the trouble? He obviously isn’t thinking you have a chance of walking back out.”
“We probably don’t.” You say solemnly.
“What?”
“Best case scenario, my father dies and we walk away wanted by the throne. Most realistic outcome is I’m captured. If that happens, you grab Wonwoo and leave me behind.”
More than a few voices protest as the room descends into yelling.
“I’m your captain and you will listen!” You roar, silencing any objects with a swat of your hand. “Either we all die or I do. I will not pull you into this mess.”
“Not to seem uncaring but do you honestly believe we want to deal with Wonwoo with you not here?”
“He’ll be fine.” You assure. 
Wonwoo would have to be whether he liked it or not.
“He won’t.”
“The month the Krakens had you? Wonwoo shot me. Twice.”
“He got into a brawl with Soonyoung.”
“He didn’t talk for two weeks.”
“We leave with both of you. Or we die trying.”
“No one is dying for me! This isn’t some silly brawl in a washed out tavern or a rival crew we’re ambushing. My father is capable of suffering worse than anything you can imagine.” You pause, nearly choking on the horror twisting out of your stomach as you remember the king's most egregious acts. “When I was a child, I spoke out of turn at dinner once. Would you like to know what my punishment was?” Circling your gaze around the room. “He put a poker into the fire until it glowed red—”
“He hit you with it?” Seokmin opens his mouth in horror.
“No,” you swallow, “He couldn’t do anything that might leave a mark in case it made us…undesirable. We had servants assigned to take our beatings while we watched. I was five, and so was she. He hit her across the face with that poker. When I cried, he did it again. When I screamed, he hit her harder. Even if he can’t touch me, he will make sure someone suffers and I watch. I will not damn any of you to the cruelty he’s simmered on in the past ten years. Am I clear?”
The wooden door claps shut as you exit without waiting for their response.
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The King of Iaslera
Wonwoo doesn’t remember summers in Iaslera being so cold. Perhaps the bloody purple bruises blooming like a grotesque garden across his flesh have made him susceptible to the biting chill clogging the air. Or maybe the blood coating the inside of his mouth and nose. Or the cold dig of gray stone in his side.
He recognizes the damp dungeons of the king’s palace from the guards uniform, pale blue smocks with a silver lotus blossom embroidered on the back. They haven’t chained him to rings jutting from the floors or walls. Unnecessary given that Wonwoo’s right shoulder is dislocated and his ankle is broken, jutting his foot out at an awkward angle. Even if the planets aligned and the gods blessed an escape, he wouldn’t make it three paces before collapsing onto the ground.
Wonwoo doesn’t have enough knowledge of anatomy to set his shattered bones, likely to do more harm than good if he makes it out of this cell to see another day. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to Shua’s ramblings on the intricacies of the human body when he had the chance.
But he knows his arm can be saved. 
The webbed pain coming from his shoulder is familiar enough. When Wonwoo turned thirteen he’d been assigned with helping break a new stallion for the captain of the guards. The stable master only let Wonwoo watch from the fence of the ring, eyes locked on the magnificent midnight steed. Proving to be a fatal mistake when the horse, Balius, charged right at Wonwoo, knocking him off the fence, down to the hard ground below. Once wind returned to his lungs, Wonwoo got a taste for the pain of a dislocated joint for the first time. 
It'd happened twice since. Once thanks to the same dock he owed his scar, and another courtesy of the first time Jeonghan tracked Y/N across the waves to Uspar. Wonwoo knows what he has to do, but he craves to postpone the inevitable until the last possible moment.
The guards patrol in front of his cell every time the clock in the palace yard gives a large chime to signal the top of the hour. Shuffling to the bars on his bum, he uses his good foot to push himself across the weathered stone of his cell, before leaning his damaged arm between the thick shafts of iron. 
Folding the bottom of his shirt between his teeth, Wonwoo prepares for the sear of pain. Even the faint memory of agony shoots gooseflesh down his spine. No matter how many times he’d done this, tears stung his eyes for hours till the pain sent him into a dark abyss.
Wonwoo knows if he screams, the guards will come running and eagerly dole more damage. A deep breath to corral any rogue shout that may escape his throat, and then he gives a sharp twist at his middle till he hears the sickening pop! A hefty grunt escapes into the fabric as fat pearls well in Wonwoo’s eyes, leaving clean streaks down his filthy face. Vomit rises in his throat as his vision blackens and whisps float through the haze. The surging throb curdles through his blood in time with his pulse as it rushes through his veins to every inch of his body.
The pain eclipses any of the other injuries he’s sustained so far but he tries to count his breaths, sucking in four beats and trembling out another four. His jaw feels as if it might break from how hard his teeth clench, fighting to keep the groans of agony on his tongue at bay. 
Folding in on himself, Wonwoo attempts to focus on how he will survive. At least he has the advantage of secrecy on his side. Perhaps he can get in a surprise swing if it comes down to it. Wonwoo won’t die without a fight. He’s come too far.
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“I brought you the boy, now give me what you promised.”
“Our deal was for you to bring my disgraceful daughter, not some pathetic peasant.”
“If he is here, she will come.”
“You better pray to the gods she does, boy. Because if she doesn’t, I will show you there are worse punishments than death.”
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Two days pass before a soul outside of the guards visits Wonwoo’s cell. A fever claimed him yesterday, sending his body into a fit of chills and muddling his brain. The thin fabric of his bloodied shirt and trousers stick to his clammy figure like a second skin. Wonwoo figures it’s finally gone for the kill when Y/N appears in front of the bars. Back in the finery of court, gown and jewels pristine. Hair tamed on top of her head in a style Wonwoo knows she hated, beautiful face weathered with age. 
No it wasn’t Y/N. It was her mother, Queen Demetria. 
Wonwoo had no quarrel with the Queen. She’d been as powerless against the king as everyone else. But even in her limited ability, she’d cared for him and his plight. When his parents dumped him at the palace gates as an infant and allowed him to find refuge within its walls. Tasked a maid, Miss Ele, with his care. When he turned five, Wonwoo was brought back in front of the queen. He remembers how the queen asked him his name, told him it was the name of a boy who would grow into a strong man. And she let him stay, working in the stables to earn his keep. 
There were worse fates for orphans.
With great effort he tips his head in a bow, nearly toppling over as his balance abandons him. “Your Majesty.”
“Is she alive?”
“I—”
“Please, is she alive?”
“Yes.” Wonwoo breathes. If Y/N was dead he’d like to think he’d feel it somewhere in his gut.
“What is she like?”
Wonwoo isn’t sure what to tell her. Few things are as solid as his loyalty to Y/N. But he owes the Queen his life. If she hadn’t been there, he'd have been dead long before he’d met her daughter.
“She’s,” he pauses, trying to figure what he can say without telling too much. His mind working at half speed under the fever, thick as molasses. “She’s incredible.”
The Queen gives him a watery smile, prodding him to continue.
“She’s brave, and smart. And she looks just like you. She’s a lot like you actually.”
“Really?” She swallows thickly.
“She tries to be like the king, but she… She’s…” 
Good? Wonwoo knew the extensive lists of crimes and cruelties Y/N committed, the unknowns easily assumed. Good was a stretch but she wasn’t bad. She fell somewhere in between, beyond an easy answer. It's the only way to describe the princess turned pirate. A low bar to say she hadn’t been as cruel as she could have been but it's true. She’d done horrible things but at her core she was as good as someone in her position could be. Like a flame. Able to burn down villages if left unchecked, but eager to keep a freezing family warm if given the opportunity. Fire burns because that's its nature, but you can’t damn candle for the crimes of the pyre. 
“I remember when you were brought here, Wonwoo. Just a baby. I’d still been carrying my daughter at the time. And I knew once Y/N came, she’d find you. A mother just knows.” The clamor of keys tickles his ears. “Your mother asked me to protect you and I promised the gods I would. She risked her life to save her child. She inspires me to do the same.”
The door to his cell swings open, ear splitting as rusted metal scraps against stone.
“I can’t walk,” Wonwoo pants. “they broke my ankle.”
The Queen pauses at the sight of his foot and Wonwoo can’t help but stare at her. The furrow of her eyebrows and twist of her lips remind him of her daughter. 
“I have several guards that are loyal to me, not the king. I’ll try to have one fetch you and help you through the tunnels.”
“I don’t know where I’ll go after.”
“Even when she was little my daughter had a talent for finding you. I’m sure she’ll be here to collect you soon enough.”
“Thank you.”
“I should be thanking you, Wonwoo. You’ve taken care of Y/N all this time.”
“She makes it easy.”
“Love has a peculiar way of doing that, doesn’t it?”
Before he can say anything else, she’s turned to exit down the same hallway she’d come, heels echoing as she goes.
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Jeonghan paces in front of the cell like a tiger circles its cage, like he is the one trapped inside and not Wonwoo. His hair is disheveled, eyes wild, tension stringing his muscles tight. Agitation consumes Jeonghan, even Wonwoo’s infection riddled mind can see it.
The sting of vomit and other refuse in the corner of Wonwoo’s accommodations stains the air. This morning, his urine was tinged pink. The sliver of hope of seeing anything beyond these walls ever again left when the Queen turned her back to him yesterday. No guards came to help him. Only ones providing small buckets of water for him to clean himself and drink from.
“She’s going to let you die in here.”
No reply. Not that Wonwoo has the energy to open his mouth, let alone goad the man. Let him drive himself mad for all Wonwoo cares.
“It was supposed to be her!” Jeonghan’s nostrils flare as he presses his face between the bars. His hands shake as they squeeze around the biting steel. “You ruined everything, you stupid piece of filth!”
The pieces of the mysterious puzzle click. Perhaps its infection induced delirium but Wonwoo finally understands why Jeonghan despises him so.
Jeonghan hates Wonwoo because he has what Jeonghan can’t get. No matter which way Jeonghan tried to rub his unworthiness in his face, she didn’t want him. Y/N chose Wonwoo, or that's what Jeonghan believes. A peasant-born bastard beat the son of a Duke. In Jeonghan’s world it was unimaginable. 
In Wonwoo’s world, it's unimaginable too.
He can’t help but laugh. Scratchy and unpleasant given his condition but full bellied laughter fills his mouth, splitting the silence of the dungeon.
“You think it’s funny? You’re going to die here and no one is going to care.”
Snorting around caked blood and snot, Wonwoo’s hysteria continues at Jeonghan’s words. Wonwoo is laughing at his own funeral. Wildly inappropriate, but the irony of the gods sends him into a fit.
Jeonghan turns to the guards, furious at Wonwoo’s inability to respond to his attempts to instigate a fight. “Move him to the throne room, the King is waiting.”
The guards manhandling him upright might have hurt if Wonwoo’s body wasn’t begging for death. He’s slipping away into the recesses of his mind, barely able to snag the thread of reality that continues to unravel before him as he giggles manically. The jostle of his ankle sends bile to his mouth, acrid burn flooding his tongue. 
Spots paint his vision, the movement fatiguing him quickly. His head lulls to and fro, muscles retired as they carry Wonwoo out of the dungeon and through the palace. Wonwoo’s eyes refuse to open, but he can listen. Every footstep thuds like a pulse, whispered words coming to him as if he’s deep underwater. A sharp gasp greets him when the guards finally pause.
The crack of his skull on marble is the last thing Wonwoo registers before he returns to darkness.
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Onyx skies weep as a small dingy enters the harbor of Amesstino, welcoming the long lost princess home after years of separation as angry waves attempt to claim her for the tide. 
Disguised as a gang of traders, you and your crew silently dock and flee the tiny craft. Thick sheets of rain provide plenty of cover to sneak to the palace unseen. No one speaks, crashes of thunder shaking the earth and bolts of lightning splitting the sky. Even the wind whips against your body, lashing at your back. The gods are angry. 
Your fury is more dangerous.
The King anticipates your arrival, welcoming you with  abandoned guard posts and open gates. You walk through the front door with baited breath, not even a servant ghosts through the empty quartz hallways.
Several pairs of eyes take in the finery that is the Iaslerian palace. As if sculpted from a single piece of white marble, smooth ornate columns support the massive structure, free from any blemishes or ware. Pale blue tapestries embroidered with silver lotus blossoms hang from the ceiling in even rows like icicles. Exactly the same as the day you left, frozen in time, eagerly awaiting your return.
Imposing silver doors seal off the throne room, gleaming like two teeth waiting to bite. Their thickness prevents any sound from breaking free, leaving you woefully unprepared for what will greet you on the other side.
A single beat of breath passes before your crew heaves the doors open to meet your maker.
Guns cocked and teeth bare, your eyes quickly scan the throne room. In the center, your father lazes in his throne, eyes alight with cruel mirth. Your mother is poised next to him, mouth wide in shock, face pale as if she’d seen a ghost. Guards line the walls, swords drawn; tense for a fight.
But the heap sprawled to the right of the lotus emblem on the floor stops heart. The familiar mop of hair inkling across the braided silver and blue veins of the seal. His chest doesn’t move, almost unrecognizable through bloody bruises swelling half his face. 
Denial shrouds your mind. Wonwoo isn't dead. You’d feel it. In your gut, in your heart. Somewhere, you’d feel his soul leave this world and escape to the next. 
“I gave you the princess, now give me back my title!” Jeonghan demands, emerging from the line of guards to the left.
“You’re as much of a fool as your father Jeonghan! Did you truly believe I’d let you roam Iaslera? You ruined any chance to return to civility when you took that brand on your neck!” 
“You said—”
“Silence!” Carnos bellows, voice echoing between the walls. “My dear daughter has finally returned.” he smiles, “I wish to welcome her back.”
Your breath stutters in your lungs. You’ve had countless knives to your throat, guns to your back, brawled with the rowdiest of thieves and criminals. But the bravery curling around your edges shrinks back in the face of your father. 
Suddenly you're five again watching Dirce cowering on the floor, with a bloody welt across her face. Helpless as your father unleashes the monster that lurks under his skin. It’s all your fault. Your greed. Your pride. Your envy. No one is to blame but yourself.
“You wanted me here.” You manage to steel your voice. “ He’s of no use now. Let him go and I’ll do whatever you want.”
If your father wants your submission, to see you beg, you’ll do it. He can break you if it means your crew will be left whole.
“What I want is for you to finally learn your place. And you will, in due time. But first, you’ll watch your little bastard lose his head.”
“No!”
“Be silent!” He demands, guards taking a threatening step forward. “You insolent little bitch! You thought you could escape me? I am a King! You are nothing. Less than nothing. You couldn’t even escape that pathetic excuse of a pirate on your own! You needed a peasant to—”
A gunshot rings through the room. A hole in the king's chest releases a trickle of blood down his front, staining the creamy linen shirt. King Carnos shakes as he dips his chin, mouth open in shock as he realizes he’s been shot.
The smoking revolver in Jeonghan’s hand quivers, his eyes wide at what he’s done.
An eerie smile creeps across your father’s face, blood staining his teeth. His last words are indecipherable as he chokes on the next rush through his mouth.
Not even a mouse squeaks to break the fragile silence hanging in the air, bodies frozen to the floor as the great King of Iaslera falls. 
Then chaos explodes.
Your mother wails as she registers what's happened, guards rushing in an attempt to aid the king. 
Every muscle in your body screams to flee but your mind keeps you on your knees. The king is dead. Your father is dead. Mouth slack, you shiver as death brushes past you, her chilled hand resting briefly on your shoulder before she steps forward to claim his soul. The once faint whispers of the sea trickling into your ears again. I’ll collect you eventually, princess. But not tonight. Death will have to wait once more for you to trail behind her.
Soonyoung drags you by your armpits, screaming something in your face that you can’t hear, the ring of the bullet replaying over and over; as if you’re under the waves and life is happening far above on the surface. Wonwoo’s limp body still rests in the corner, face bruised and caked with flaking patches of deep maroon.
Everything rushes you at once.
“Come on Y/N!”
“Wonwoo, get Wonwoo!” You shriek hysterically over Soonyoung’s shoulder as he pushes you out.
“We’ve got to get back to the boat!”
“Please!” You beg, voice horse as tears streak your face. 
Hand iron tight around your wrist, Soonyoung doesn’t let you break from his grip. You barely make out Jun and Jihoon carrying a third body before you’re outside and nearly falling down the cliff to the shore.
Seokmin fights to keep his hold on the dingy as it batters against the sand. You and Soonyoung are the first to make it. Minutes pass by as you watch the remaining members of your crew fly down the stairs, slowed with the added weight of another. You can’t breathe. 
Jihoon hauls Wonwoo into the ship first, followed by himself and the other men. 
Nothing else matters, just the weak rise of his chest. It’s the tether your sanity latches on as you return to the sea.
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Dreams
In the liminal space between life and the abyss, Wonwoo dreams. 
He dreams, and he remembers.
The first time Wonwoo meets the princess, he discovers she’s insufferable.
The little girl glides his way, the self-righteous air of importance swirling her stiff shoulders. “What is your name?”
Wonwoo just gives her a slow blink, she’s woefully out of place amongst the smells and sounds of the stable.
Turning to the older woman, the snobby girl asks, “Is he simple?” 
“I’m not simple!” Wonwoo objects.
“Then what is your name? You have one don’t you? Or do you prefer I call you ‘stable boy’?”
“My name is Wonwoo.”
“Nice to meet you.” She says, nose high in the air as she extends her hand.
Wonwoo hesitates before shaking it like he’s watched the older men do when they settle a deal.
“No!” She objects, snatching her palm away. “You don’t shake a lady’s hand.”
Her scolding confuses him, twisting his face.
“You do know what a lady is?”
“Of course I do!” He stomps. “You’re just a girl!”
“Ladies are girls, you idiot!”
An older woman steps in, “Ma’am, your horse is ready.”
Huffing indignantly, the little girl twirls to flounce to the other side of the stables. She walks as if the ground only exists to rise and meet her foot with each step. The princess is headed where the caramel colored mare that bit Wonwoo two days ago waits. Figures. Crazy horse for a crazy girl.
“Would you like to play with me?”
“I have chores.”
“They can wait until after we play.”
“Go on, son.” urges the older groomsman Wonwoo assists. “I’ll take care of your stalls.” 
His eyes shift as he stammers for another excuse. Play with the crazy girl? He’d rather shovel the entire stable twice over.
Wonwoo doesn’t get the chance to speak before she snagged his wrist, pulling him towards the wide entrance. “Come on!”
Once tucked away in a secluded corner of the garden, both panting, Wonwoo looks at her. She looks about his age, only an inch shorter than he is at seven years old. Wisps of loose hair float around her face with a few tiny braids and twists pinned here and there. Delicate threads of silver intertwined throughout. Her dress is simple stormy blue but the fabric clearly indicates it isn't a hand me down like all his torn and patched clothes are.
“Do you know how to play soldiers?”
“Yes?”
“Teach me.”
“Huh?”
“My sisters don’t know how and when I ask the boys in court they won’t play with me.”
Wonwoo spends the rest of the afternoon running around the garden with Y/N. She’s decided they’re nations are at war, and this is the final battle.
“Yield!” She cries.
“Never!”
“Your majesty! What are you doing?” The shrill voice of an older maid rings out. “Young ladies do not roll in the dirt with servants! Certainly not princesses!”
The wrinkly woman grabs Y/N’s wrist, shooting a glare at Wonwoo.
“And you! Don’t you have chores that need finishing?” The maid spits before whipping around towards the palace.
The little princess mouths a silent apology over her shoulder, remorseful round eyes only leaving Wonwoo when she’s dragged behind a hedge.
“No way to behave! Your governess will have my head when she sees you…”
“Do you like burnt sugar cake?”
Wonwoo continues to ignore any effort for conversation, focusing on raking the new hay he’s laid down in the stall. Now that he’s twelve he’s given more responsibilities than just tossing the soiled hay into a cart.
“How long will you be angry with me?”
More silence. It’s the only thing Wonwoo can control in the unbalanced dynamic between himself and the youngest princess of the court. If she wished, she could command him to do whatever she wanted, the threat of whips at his back. But she allows Wonwoo to be angry. To be silent. She’s sat and mopped for the past two hours, huffing and sighing as Wonwoo refused to acknowledge her bids for attention. He ducks into the next stall and begins the same repetitive steps he has all morning, allowing the sweat on his brow and pull of his body to dull his mind.
What business was it to the princess that he couldn’t read? 
When he exits, he finds the piece of confection wrapped in a silk handkerchief on the wall of the stall, Y/N nowhere to be seen.
The stables aren’t warmed with her presence again. Wonwoo never admits to missing it.
“I’m going for a ride!”
“My lady, Muriel has oyspox and there is no one else to escort you.” A stammering maid attempts to placate the fuming princess.
“If my mare is not saddled this instant I will take someone’s head!”
“You cannot ride without accompaniment!”
“He will escort me.”
Wonwoo knows she’s referring to him without looking away from the saddle he’s rigging onto one of the guard’s horses. A rambunctious sandy colt named Athos with a penchant to buck at strangers. He’s one of Wonwoo’s favorites.
“Ma’am, he is a stablehand!”
“Which is of no concern to me.” The rich timber of her voice is decidedly royal. “He will be my escort and that is final.”
Handing over the reins of the stallion to another servant, Wonwoo sets towards the tack room for the appropriate gear. The dark leather saddle and matching bridle is in perfect condition despite going years without use. Wonwoo would know, he’s the one charged with oiling them.
The familiar caramel colored mare is clearly excited for a ride, baying over the door to her stall. Wonwoo can’t stop the grin from spreading to his lips. Over the years, Kalsta had become as familiar as the back of his hand, only nipping his shirt when he refuses her a treat.
Once Kalsta and another stone gray mare are prepared, the fuming princess mounts her and dashes from the stable. Her hair blasting behind her as she pushes into a dead sprint across the hills leading to the coastline below the cliff housing the dazzling white palace.
Wonwoo’s eyes roll, but follows nevertheless; careful to remain several paces behind, even when the horses tire to a trot. From this distance, Wonwoo catches a few muttered words about some royal from the next continent over the crashing waves.
“If you were to marry a girl, wouldn’t you care to know more about her than which season she prefers?”
It takes Wonwoo a moment to realize she’s finally addressing him directly. When he does, he fumbles for an appropriate answer.
“I–,” he stammers, “I don’t know. I guess.”
“Then it is of no coincidence if you disagree with her about other more important topics?”
“Such as?”
“Such as… well I’m not quite sure but certainly there are more important things than my preferences in tea.”
“Surely there is, Your Grace.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“A humble servant would never mock their sovereign.”
“Humility is a virtue you lack in spades, Wonwoo.”
The grin pulling at the corners of his lips wins the tug of war with his mind. “Ahh, so she does remember me.”
Rolling her eyes, the first smile Wonwoo has seen all afternoon blooms on her face. “Of course I remember you. A girl never forgets the first boy she beats up.”
“You didn’t beat me up!”
Her warm chuckle brightens the atmosphere despite the nipping autumn breeze.
“So you’re to be married?”
“If my father has his way, yes.”
“What’s he like?”
“My father?”
“No, the prince you’ve been mumbling about.”
“He’s not a prince, he’s the son of a duke in Nas-Shost.” Y/N picks at the seam of the saddle. “We’ve been engaged since I was twelve, but I’m not sure what he’s like. We’ve only written a few letters.”
“A few letters since you were twelve?”
“Marriage wasn’t as looming when I was a child.”
“And you haven’t learned anything about him in all that time?”
“He tries to charm me but I find it quite dull.”
“Picky princess.”
“Is it so wrong to want a man of some substance?”
“Like what?” 
Wonwoo hadn’t thought much about marriage at all. He’d caught a few of the younger maids staring at him when he worked without his shirt on but paid them no mind. No one ever gave him reason enough to think of anything more than some lighthearted touching. He was barely sixteen after all.
“I don’t know. His words tell me nothing about who he is or what he enjoys. Only that he is an incorrigible flirt who takes interest in trivial matters of taste.”
“You don’t want a man who charms you?”
“I want a man who has meaning beyond a made up title.”
“‘Made up title’,” he rolls the words around his mouth. “I believe that borders on treason.”
“Does it count if I’m referring to myself?”
Wonwoo continues to ride with you in silence, this time matching your pace. 
Wonwoo wakes to whispers of his name, urgent calls for him to break the delicate surface of dreams. He fights a shout when he finds Y/N hovering over him, hand covering his mouth. Brushing it aside, he throws his gaze around the tiny space of his quarters before returning to her.
She’s cloaked in a gauzy dressing gown, the thin cream cotton of her nightgown peeking out between the deep blue lapels where the soft skin of her chest disappears; bedraggled tendrils of hair curled around her shoulder. The gentle flicker of candlelight casts her face in a hazy glow, flame reflecting in the dark center of her eyes. The princess is in his room, perched on the side of his bed, face inches from his own. Wonwoo must still be dreaming.
“He’s here.”
Wonwoo’s brain is thick as cold honey, the day in the stables more grueling with the additional horses the king’s guest brought. “What?”
“Jeonghan. He’s here.”
“And you’ve come to my room to tell me this?” Wonwoo turns his back towards her and closes his eyes.
“He’s horrible.”
Her admission gives Wonwoo pause. Glancing over his shoulder, he catches a wet trail of tears glossing Y/N’s face, chin tucking to her chest to hide her visage amongst her hair. Pitiful whimpers spill from her lips. Wonwoo nearly chokes when she throws herself into his chest, hot beads streaming onto his bare skin as the walls of control crumble.
“He’s awful, Woo.”
Wonwoo has never navigated such an emotional response from Y/N, from any woman really. When they’d been children, she’d stomp her foot and storm away when upset. Or sometimes tackle him to the dirt and pin him under her till he apologized and begged for mercy. He’s completely out of his depth..
Remembering how his mother would comfort him, Wonwoo lifts a hand to stroke the top of her head. A fresh round of tears erupt, shaking her against him. A loud bawl escapes Y/N, freezing Wonwoo’s blood. He cannot get caught with the princess in his bed. Not in this state; thin cover pooling around his waist, his chest bare and her’s barely covered by thin scraps of fabric. Both states of dress were courtesy of Iaslera’s brutal summers. But a coincidence wouldn’t save his sorry hide if another servant walked in.
“Y/N,” Wonwoo whispers gently. “It will be okay.”
The lie does nothing to stifle her sobs.
Trying again, “It will be fine, I promise.” 
Wonwoo has never been a master of words.
“It won’t!” She shudders. “He’s awful, and rude. And he looks at me like nothing more than some prized horse.”
“They’ve only arrived today. Surely he cannot be that bad already.”
“He’s exactly like my father.”
Y/N’s father. Less of a man and more of a waking nightmare. Wonwoo barely interacted with him but the King’s reputation was well known across the kingdom.
Any words of comfort die in his chest. There’s nothing Wonwoo can do. That anyone can do.
“I wish I’d never been born.”
If Wonwoo had been born in her position, he’d wish the same thing.
“You’ve always wanted to see Nas-Shost.”
“How wonderful it will be from the confines of a palace.”
“Perhaps he’ll allow you to travel. You said the King hardly visits the Queen since you came about.”
“So I’m to pray he takes up a mistress after he’s had his fill of me?”
Telltale signs of her fury take root. Huffed breath and shaking hands, a husky scoff punctuating each sentence. Perhaps anger is better than sorrow. Wonwoo has placated her many times when the princesses' temper emerged. This would be no different.
“I’d pray he takes up several, then he’d be too busy to bother you, and let you do as you please.”
“I’d do as I please anyway. He’s barely a duke and I’m a princess.”
“Yes, as you’ve reminded everyone with every breath you take.”
“Jeonghan is the one who acts like his title is of importance! ‘Future Duke’ this and ‘when I am Duke’ that. He squawks like a bird.”
“You’re not quite dazzling to be around either so he might bore quickly.”
“I could have you arrested for speaking ill of the royal family.”
“And what do you plan to tell the guards, your highness?” Wonwoo smirks. “That you forced yourself into my chambers past midnight for some gossip and found yourself offended?”
Wide eyes glace down to his naked chest, jumping to her own as she pulls her dressing gown around herself tighter. The apples of her cheeks warm enticingly as she realizes the precarious position she’s arranged them in, still half in Wonwoo’s lap, perched between his legs.
As if burned, you jump away from his bed to the wall only a foot away. “I—. I didn’t, it isn’t.”
“Isn’t what, princess?”
A pause before indignation takes flight. “You truly are  insufferable!” She quietly shouts. Spinning to exit his room with a dramatic sigh.
“I wish for a ride.”
“I’m occupied, ma’am.”
“Well make yourself un-occupied.”
“Her Majesty wishes it, so it will be.”
“How I hate when you call me that.”
“What would Her Royal Highness prefer?”
“For you to shut your trap!”
“Such foul words from a lady.”
“I have several more for you if my horse isn’t ready soon.”
“Your Highness, would you mind if I accompany you for your ride?
“I prefer to go alone.”
“You’re going with the stable hand.”
“It’s required that I have a chaperone. Since he’s a servant, he doesn’t count as company.”
Wonwoo tries not to take offense to the subtle insult to his station. He knows she doesn’t mean what she says but the words resemble the same ones he’s heard from other, less friendly, lips many times before.
“I see. Well, I hope to speak with you when you return.”
“Of course, Jeonghan.”
“You want to what?”
“Leave. Go somewhere else. Anywhere else.”
“And just how do you expect to do that? You’ve never left these grounds.”
“That’s a lie! I visited Anlehm when I was thirteen!”
“With a royal escort! A girl on the road by herself is completely different.”
“I won’t be alone.”
“And who will join you?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Please keep up Wonwoo, we don’t have much time to discuss.”
“Why me?”
“You are the only person in the world I trust.”
She speaks as if the admission is little more than declaring the day's weather, but the weight rests heavy on his shoulders. The only person the princess of Iaslera trusts is a bastard stable boy with nothing to his name. 
“And as such, I will need your assistance.”
“I’ve never left the palace.”
“But you understand peasant things like money.”
It’s not a slight, simply the truth.
“So I am nothing more than a guard for you?”
“Of course not, you’re my friend.”
Friend. Friends with the princess. Gods help him.
“A friend would tell you your plan is madness.”
“And you?”
“You’ll do it anyway.”
“You know me well.”
“If we’re caught, I’ll hang.”
“Then we won’t get caught.”
“Because it is as easy as that.”
“‘If her majesty wishes, so it will be.’ Remember?”
“So it will be.”
“What do you know about sex?”
Wonwoo chokes on the large bite of apple he’d been munching on. “Pardon?”
Rolling to her side next to him under the shade of the lush fruit tree, Y/N starts again. “Sex. What do you know about it?” 
“I— This isn’t an appropriate conversation for a lady.”
“Well I’m no longer a lady, considering I’ve run away with a servant. I’m thoroughly disavowed from the crown. No need to worry about corrupting me.”
Corrupting her. Him corrupting Y/N. 
Oh.
The thoughts were already there, smothered by his own guilt of imaging his friend in that way. Wonwoo suddenly pictures the first time Y/N wore trousers, the roughspun fabric hugging her rolling hips as she glided by. Worse, she didn’t even realize what she was doing, having his tongue nearly hung out of his mouth like a panting dog. And now she’s asking him about sex? Perhaps leaving the palace was a bad idea.
“It's something people do to pass the time.”
“I know what it is, Wonwoo. What is it like?”
“I don’t know. Probably like kissing I suppose.”
“And what's that like?”
“You’ve never?”
“Princess, remember?”
“Well it’s…sort of wet? And feels nice. It’s hard to explain.”
“Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me what kissing is like.”
“Wonwoo.”
“Yes?”
“You’re really quite handsome. Do you know that?”
The burn of whiskey on an empty stomach loosens even the lips of royalty, it seems.
“High compliment coming from a princess.”
“I’m not a princess.”
Y/N huffs, stumbling back into the mound of hay Wonwoo collected for sleeping. Fall looms on the horizon and the chill of the evening air requires sharing the ratty blanket. Wonwoo would happily sleep in his own pile but her disposition after a cold night left much to be desired.
“You’ll always be a princess. You still walk like a princess, talk like one, even order me about like we never left the palace.”
“I do not order you around!”
Shrilling his voice in mockery, he does his best impression of what he dubs her ‘princess voice.’ “Wonwoo, fetch us breakfast. Wonwoo, teach me to fish. Wonwoo, show me how to use a knife.” 
“Well you listen so well it’d be a shame to waste a talent.”
A pause.
“I like when you order me about.”
Perhaps he’s indulged too much as well.
“Wonwoo.”
“Yes?”
“Will you teach me about kissing now?
That night, Wonwoo teaches you everything he knows. He also learns sex is much more than passing time.
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The Edge
Dark. Wonwoo registers darkness and warmth first. As his soul slowly returns to his body he realizes he’s laying down in a cot, the unmistakable sway of the sea rocks him to consciousness. And then, Wonwoo realizes he hurts.
A sharp pounding echoes through his bones in time with his weak pulse. Each breath stretching his lungs to the point they feel as if they’ll shred. One of his eyes is swollen shut and the other waters uncontrollably under the pain. 
A squeeze around his hand anchors his attention. Using whatever reserve of strength he has left, he tries to squeeze back.
“Wonwoo?”
The voice is familiar, buttery smoothness pleasant to his ears. Wonwoo hopes the Voice will continue saying his name. Maybe it will lull him back to sleep and away from his torment.
“Wonwoo?”
How lovely the Voice is. Perhaps he is still dreaming, the smooth slide of a warm palm against his forehead comforts him before the roughness of a damp cloth wipes at his brow. 
A pause before the Voice removes what Wonwoo assumes is her hand. He calls on the reserve of strength again to protest, coughing a weak groan into the space above him.
“You’re awake!” She says, as if it's some marvel. 
When she dives into his chest, Wonwoo nearly screams. His ribs protest her weight, his lungs on the verge of collapse. But on his skin he feels her hot wet tears, her nose digging into his breastbone. Even her lips brush against the sensitive flesh as she cries his name over and over. The desire to wrap his arms around her is quelled by protesting muscles. It feels as if he’s wading through wet sand.
She must sense his pain because she removes herself from his person and coos for him to sleep, raking her fingers across his scalp gently as something foul and oily slips between his lips. Sleep, what a wonderful idea.
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The shallow rise and fall of Wonwoo’s chest has been the subject of your attention for three days.  A part of you fears that the moment you look away it will stop.
He’d woken for the first time in the early hours of the morning a few days ago, the sun barely rising from his bed beneath the horizon as Wonwoo breached consciousness. Shua lectured on and on regarding the significance of rest to healing. Better for Wonwoo to sleep fitfully than wake in agony. But the more frequent he broke the surface of slumber the more anxious you became. 
A brief shift of your focus to the vial of murky sedative Shua left for you to administer gives Wonwoo enough time to wake with a heart wrenching groan.
“Shhh,” you coo, settling the cool cloth back on his forehead. “You’re alright.”
“Y/N?” Wonwoo mumbles, eyes firmly shut but his eyes moving rapidly behind his lids.
“I’m here.” 
You move your free hand to his own on the side of the bed, thumb stroking the backs of his fingers in an attempt to sooth him. 
“Princess.” he slurs.
The pained sobs you’ve released quietly over the past few days return, watering your entangled hands as you rest your forehead against them. 
Even in death, your father still torments you.
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Wonwoo becomes fully sentient after a week. Weak from hunger and dehydration, but alive. Shua fusses over him at all hours like a mother hen, mixing vials and brewing all types of teas to speed his recovery along. Luckily, with all of the commotion from the crew to see Wonwoo with their own eyes, you’ve been able to fade to the shadows. 
Taking the wheel yourself gives Jihoon a chance to descend below deck. Or offering Soonyoung the opportunity to share a meal with Wonwoo as you man the rigging. Anything to stay away from the room next to your own.
Somehow Wonwoo awake and aware is worse.
But only so many distractions exist in such a small space as your ship. The crew begins to brush aside your offers of assistance, urging you to have time with Wonwoo now that he’s healing. You’re at the end of your rope when Seungkwan informs you of Wonwoo’s request to see you.
You can feel Wonwoo’s eyes watching you in the corner of his room, your own tracing the whorls in the wood grain of the floors, walls, and ceiling.
You break the silence first, “Are you angry with me?”
“When have I ever been angry with you?”
“I’m angry with myself.”
“That’s why you’re you and I’m me. I chose to go on his ship.”
“It’s my fault he was here in the first place!”
“Do you think I’m incapable of making my own choices?”
“I’ve never,”
“If given the same chance, I’d do it again. I don’t regret it.”
“I—”
Wonwoo cuts you off before you can protest. “Why have you been avoiding me?”
This is the start of the conversation you’ve been running from. 
“I haven’t.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
He’s right. And rather than continue to lie, your feet carry you out the door and back in the safety of your office.
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Two more days pass before you gather enough courage to brave him again. You’ve never been afraid of Wonwoo; never shied away from his presence. Even after tense moments, having him around was a comfort and he indulged your desire to ignore whatever bubbled between you two. But not anymore. Wonwoo is demanding answers you don’t have to questions you're terrified of asking.
He sleeps thanks to the sedative Shua slipped in his tea before re-sewing some of the garish stitches along his ribs. 
Resting in the chair next to the top of his bed, your eyes catalog his features. Even through the swelling and bruises, Wonwoo’s still handsome. From the sharp tilt of his jaw to the gentle pout of his lips, even his scar warms your heart as he dozes. It's hard to settle the panic hanging over your shoulder, a swirling mass of fear and dread. 
So lost in your own mind, you don’t realize his good eye is open and glaring straight at you.
“You’re back.”
Jumping at the rasp of his voice, you launch to your feet. “I was just leaving.”
“Of course you were.” He scoffs. 
The venom in his tone freezes you as your fist clenches around the doorknob.
He continues, “I asked Jihoon to take us to Ventparsk. I’m going to find a new crew.”
“What?” You’re trembling.
“You don’t want me here.”
“I never said that!”
“You don’t have to! You can’t even look at me without running in the other direction!”
Wonwoo just stares. He’s patient in the worst ways and the injuries littered across his face obscure any emotions he may be experiencing himself.
“I don’t know how to do this, Woo.”
“You’re too scared to try.”
“Maybe I am! But if I’m a coward, what does that make you?”
“A fool.” he spits. “I can’t pretend to not feel for you. Not anymore. If you truly do not want me then I’ll make it easier for the both of us and allow you freedom from any guilt.”
What can you say? The man you’ve bound yourself to in mind, body, and spirit, who has risked his life for you more times than you can count, is willing to walk away for your comfort; unconsciously taking half your heart with him. The idea saps the oxygen out of your lungs. You without Wonwoo. Like a flower without the sun. The sky without stars. Ocean without a tide.
Wonwoo has never asked, only allowed you to take endlessly. Perhaps it’s time you give something to him. 
Tears are welling in your eyes before you can speak. “I don’t want you to go.” Shaking your head, your voice breaks as you cry like the little girl you were so long ago. “Don’t go.” Quivering like a leaf in a storm you beg. “Please.”
Through the blur of tears you can make out Wonwoo attempting to rise out of his cot. The extensive wounds and injuries make it a Herculean effort, causing him to nearly topple to the floor before you approach him. Strong arms tangle around you as you bury your face into his neck, pleading for him to stay.
“I don’t know what else to do.” He whispers into your hair.
You continue to bawl, plagued by images of your lonely figure, missing the better half of your soul. The only steady presence in your life, the one person who played witness to your weakest moments. Months of separation at the hands of fate were child’s play considering the bleak future Wonwoo suggested. Nothing sacrificed or gained would be worth the pain if he isn’t there to share it with you. 
“Please.”
“You’re being selfish.”
“If this makes me selfish then yes I’m selfish! I’m selfish and I’m cruel because I can’t imagine a world where we separate. Please!”
“You’ll make do.”
“No I won’t.”
“So you ask me to stay by your side, knowing how I feel, and do what? Ignore it? Pretend it doesn’t exist?”
“When have I ever asked you not to feel?”
“When have I asked you for anything? Any wish or whim in my power I do. Why can’t you try?”
“I do not know how.”
“That’s a lie.”
“What do you want me to say?” Your voice cuts like glass, tears of sadness transforming into tears of frustration.
“I want you to tell me the truth!”
“I am! I have no idea what any of this means!” Your back up and pacing, hands nearly ripping your hair out in an attempt to ground yourself. “I thought you were dead Wonwoo. I thought my father killed you! And for a moment it felt like I died too.”
“And you don’t think that means something?”
“My apologies that I’m not able to write sonnets about feelings I don’t understand!” 
“You refuse to even try. I nearly died and you can’t even stand to be in the same room as me!”
“Because it’s my fault! I decided to leave the palace! I decided to pull you into my mess! How can you even look at me?”
“Because I love you.” His eyes burn. “For years, I’ve loved you and I tried not to but—” Wonwoo swallows roughly. “It’s become something I live with.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Because telling you served what purpose? You had one of the crew tortured and tossed overboard because he guessed we rolled around in some hay when we were children. Didn’t inspire confidence you’d be receptive to the idea!”
“So you decided for me?”
“Impossible as it might be, please attempt to consider how I felt.”
“And now I’m selfish? You decide to keep secrets and it’s somehow my fault?”
“Then it's my fault for not being brave enough to face your rejection?”
“I wouldn’t—. I haven’t rejected you.” You blink. “It’s terrifying. Want you the way I do. I can’t think, I couldn’t breathe until you woke up. What happens to me if I let myself have you, and you disappear?”
“I would nev—“
“What if someone comes for you again and this time they do kill you? When I saw your face at the palace, I felt…” Another hot wave of tears emerges. “I couldn’t do anything. All I saw was you. I begged my father to kill me so I wouldn’t have to live without you.”
Silence.
“Did it feel like no matter how many breaths you took there wasn’t enough air? Like you were drowning on dry land?”
“Yes—“
“Like the sun fell out of the sky and the tides stopped? Because that’s how I felt. When Jeonghan took you. My body was here but my soul was with you.”
Of course the one person who understands you is Wonwoo. He sees and he knows. And for all his claims that words aren’t his strength, he gives you courage.
“I wasn’t raised to understand this. My mother told me the most I could hope for with a man was friendship, maybe fondness. Love isn’t a privilege I’d learned to understand.”
A pregnant pause passes. 
“Then we learn together.”
Sitting back on the cot, you allow the warmth of Wonwoo’s calloused palm resting on the knobs of your spine to calm you. Sniffling pathetically, you listen to his heart drum in his chest. It reminds you all the times you pressed against him for warmth when you first ran away. The beat of his heart lulling you to rest better than any lullaby your nanny sang in the nursery. 
Wonwoo breaks the delicate silence shrouding his room.
“A liar and a coward. What a pair we make.” He chuckles, humor in the irony.
Releasing your own puff of air, you hesitate before asking.
“What do we do about it?” 
“About what?”
“These… feelings.”
“I don’t know.”
From all the stories you read as a child, confessions of love and wanting meant joy and happiness. But in its stead is something like sorrow, a firm pain of a crossroads without a clue where either path led. 
“Wonwoo?”
He hums.
“What do you want to do about it?”
Wonwoo is silent as he ponders. 
“Right now, I want to hold you.”
Moments pass as you trace shapes along his chest, careful to avoid the bandages crossing over his shoulder. The pressure of his lips against the crown of your skull turns your head up. 
Wonwoo’s face is soft, staring at you with undeserved fondness. The same way he did that night in the barn, the same way he has always done in private when he thinks you aren’t looking. If Wonwoo is brave enough to tell you, then you owe him the same.
Tracing his features with your fingers, you carefully avoid the wounds still dappling his face. Starting at the temple where his scar begins, you follow it to the plush of his lips, the skin chap under your touch. Before following the loop of his nose and the curve of his brow. 
“I love you.”
Your whispered admission floats in the air above your heads. 
Wonwoo shuts his eyes and lets you do as you please, leaving a gentle kiss to the pad of your pointer finger as it returns to his mouth. 
The smooth slide leaves you craving the contact across your own mouth. Rising up, you gently brush your lips across his. Barely a ghost of flesh but Wonwoo chases the contact. Lips slip against one another, soft passes filled with tender longing. 
One the next stroke, you suck his lower lip between your teeth and allow the tip of your tongue to trace it. You faintly register the copper taste of blood and the salt of the sea. The drag must ignite something in his blood because Wonwoo attempts to twist you underneath him before he yelps in pain.
“Stop! You’ll tear your stitches!”
“Damn the stitches,” he grits, claiming your mouth again.
Carefully maneuvering out of his reach, you break the kiss as you rise from his cot. A genuine smile of joy returning to your face after years of drought.
“When you’re better,” you whisper. 
“You’d have us wait?”
“I’d rather have you when your face no longer resembles the wrong side of a horse.”
He fails to make a grab for your sleeve, huffing as he rests back into the mattress. “I thought I charmed you with more than my looks.”
“Unfortunately, I’m quite shallow.”
“There should be an old scarf in my desk drawer, perhaps that can be of use?”
“Woo,” you gently coo. “You can’t even sit up straight.” 
“I believe that’s a matter of opinion.”
You chuckle. “When you’re well enough, I’ll lock us in here for as long as you wish.”
The simmering displeasure is clear on his face. Wonwoo isn’t angry with you. He’s angry with his injuries. With Jeonghan and your dead father. With the fates.
“As long as I wish?”
Humming in agreement as you rest one knee onto the bed, you lean over his form before whispering. 
“You should try and listen to Shua so I don’t have to wait much longer.”
“Fine.”
“It’s a deal.”
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Three months. 
Three months of silently mourning the death of your father in the dead of night, when you’re safe from prying eyes and your mind wanders free. You hardly knew him, he was as much of a stranger as a merchant you stumbled passed in a busy market. Guilt whispered across your mind as each tear slipped down your face. Mourning the man who terrorized a nation and his family, who paid for your execution, who tortured Wonwoo. 
Three months of Wonwoo downing every greasy concoction and bitter remedy Shua prescribes. One month for the bruises to yellow and fade into memory, for his cuts to scab and scar. Two months for his shoulder to cease its insistent throb. Two months of keeping his body firmly planted in his cot until he’s cleared to rise with the assistance of a mahogany cane courtesy of Jihoon. Another month of hobbling along the deck, relearning his center of gravity under the threat of toppling into the sea.
Ninety two days of heated gazes and longing brushes of hands in passing, conversations littered with double entendres verging on obscenity. More whispered confessions and declarations. Twenty four nights of you visiting his room under the cover of the moon, sitting by his side, clasping his hand while he slept fitfully, administering more oily sedative when the nightmares chase him awake and one night he pulls you down beside him. Then seventy two mornings blinking wake, curled against one another under the thin sheets like you had all those years ago, whispering promises in the gentle dawn.
The first night Wonwoo shuffles across the deck without the assistance of the familiar piece of wood, you nearly take him against the main mast. Instead, you settle for pulling him to your cabin as the oil lantern begins to burn low, when the eyelids of the crew droop from exhaustion and their heads turn away in consideration.
A choked groan leaves your throat as his hips settle between your thighs, molding together so tightly there’s no deciphering where you end and Wonwoo begins. Mouths refuse to separate as you roll against one another, a cacophony of breathless whimpers and husky moans blending between lips.
Your bodies burn with the inferno of a pyre, every hair stands on edge like lightning is about to strike a hair width away. There’s no air to breath, but the space you’ve descended into thankfully requires none. Only you and Wonwoo exist, not time or the sea or the stars.
“Say it again,” he whispers into your mouth.
“I love you!” You gasp back, eager to seal the words with another suck of his tongue.
Calloused hands palm your chest, breasts heavy and full, nipples growing to stiff peaks as deft fingers brush and pluck. Wonwoo laps at the smooth dip between before latching onto one, nipping and sucking as you writhe in the sheets, thrashing wildly against him. Your own hands make busy twisting and pulling his hair, nails scraping against the dip of his neck and across his broad shoulders.
“Again.” Wonwoo bites into your skin, punctuated with another harsh curl of his hips into yours, so deep he’s in your lungs.
Sobbing your reply, eyes closing as your forehead presses to his, you nearly choke on air as he drives into you again and again.
“I love you.” 
“Again.” He pants desperately.
“Wonu!” You keen, back of your head pressing into the pillows as your chest collapses from his precarious rhythm. Streams of light rupture across your vision, tension swelling in your veins and ripping you apart.
“Love you, I love you,” He mutters like a prayer into the crease of your shoulder, face buried in your neck as he snatches your wrist, twining your fingers with his next to your head, grip so tight nails sting into the back of each other's hand.
Another prayer of his name rips from your throat, cannoning Wonwoo into a frenzy. He pummels into you with such force the crown of your skull knocks into the headboard. His hips stutter as he finds his release, filling you with his seed as he cries your own name into your lips.
Stuttered breaths settle for a moment.
“Again, Woo.”
He eagerly follows your orders, just as he’s always done.
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Epilogue
Once upon a time, an unlikely friendship between a princess and a stable boy bloomed in the gardens of a king’s palace. The stable boy followed the princess wherever she decided to go, and the princess knew that if she ever needed to turn back, the stable boy would welcome her with open arms. Even when age led her to the other side of this life like an old friend, the stable boy couldn’t help but follow. Though he was eager to return to her side once more, the princess had remained behind to welcome him with a smile when he walked over the hill.
Some say that when the moon dips below the horizon of the sea each day, it's the princess returning to the warmth of her lover's embrace. Always destined to find one another in each life, never to be kept apart, no matter what came between.
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cosmicanger · 2 years ago
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Edward Burtynsky
Salt Flats #2, Sua Pan, Botswana, 2019
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rainybubbles · 6 months ago
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Unrequited love and 141
(Sorry in advance for my mistakes, English is not my mother tongue. So sorry if it's badly written or if they're OOC.)
Suggestive theme for Soap's one /!/
SIMON : you were his second choice.
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You gazed into his eyes, and within their depths, the truth unfurled. His lips remained sealed, yet their silence spoke volumes, delivering a verdict you dreaded.
"I'm sorry, I don't like you that way," he said, and it felt like a punch to the gut.
-Such has been the pattern of your existence.
-You were never anyone's first pick—neither for your family, nor your friends, nor your school.
- You were always the second choice. And for a brief moment, you thought maybe things were different with Simon.
-Maybe his kindness towards you meant something more, maybe his tough exterior was just a front.
-But no, it wasn't like that at all. You felt foolish, like you were living in a dream.
-"Let's just forget about this, it was dumb," you whispered, trying to brush it off.
-"Yeah," he agreed quickly. Too quickly. And you knew why. He never saw you in that way.
-"You'll find someone better," he said, trying to be comforting.
-You fought the urge to scream, to rail against the clichéd reassurance.
-"Less emo, maybe?" you joked, but it didn't ease the pain.
-He chuckled, a sound you used to love, but now it only reminded you of what you couldn't have.
-"You'll find someone," he repeated, but you knew it wasn't true. All your crushes ended the same way, and Simon was your last hope.
-"I should go home. You have stuff to do, right?" you said, feeling the awkwardness between you both.
-"Yeah," he confirmed, not asking you to stay like he usually did. You knew you messed up.
-You forced a smile, hiding the tears, and left.
-Walking back to your apartment, the rain mixed with your tears, and it all felt like one big mess. You wanted to forget about Simon, but at the same time, you wanted more of him. It was torture.
-Back at your place, you picked up your phone and saw a message from Johnny. Simon has been seeing someone. It hit you hard.
-"When?" you replied quickly.
-"This week. He wasn't sure, but it's been going on for months," came the response.
-And then you realized. 
-Those moments you shared with Simon—they weren't meaningless. 
-They weren’t figments of your imagination.
-Him without his mask, the flirt jokes, the stay-in at his flat…
- They were moments stolen in the absence of his true desire, placeholders for another. 
-You were nothing more than a substitute, a convenient distraction until his heart's desire was available. 
-You were just a stand-in until his real crush was available. 
-You were a second choice.
-"What a coward," you muttered to yourself, feeling angry and hurt.
__________________________________________
SOAP : hookup who wishes more
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His lips brushed against your neck, the sizzle of breakfast in the pan, and you allowed yourself to drift into reverie.
A life entwined with his seemed within reach.
Yet, the harsh reality pierced through when he reached for his phone to answer another call from another one night-stand.
In his bed, you were just another person, another quick fuck, maybe the one he was most comfortable with, like an old pair of socks.
But not the only one. Just someone he could rely on when he needed.
It was silly to have feelings for him.
But sometimes, when he stayed in the morning, asking about your family or giving you birthday gifts, you couldn't help but hope.
Maybe he was trying to tell you something. Until he left again. Until he talked about others. Until he was with someone else.
You lived close to his place, always there when he wanted you. Even though you knew your place, you couldn't bring yourself to cut him off, to tell him to stop.
Your heart craved his attention, even if it was only for a moment.
"Could ye pass me the salt, Nox?" he asked casually.
That wasn't your name, nor a moniker he bestowed upon you. Your body tensed, gripped by a sudden realization. He had mistaken you for one of his fuck buddies.
The agony engulfed you, clouding your thoughts.
"It's not my name," you whispered, barely audible.
"Sorry, Ah wasn't payin’ attention," he apologized, planting a kiss on your forehead.
Focused. The word echoed in your mind as you struggled to find your voice. "Leave," you whispered.
"Whit?" he asked, confused.
"I said, leave."
“Wait, if somethin’ happened, I can help-”
“That's the problem, John. You can't help. You can’t have it both ways. You can't treat me like your lover one moment, only to discard me for someone else the next. You can't oscillate between warmth and coldness. I'm tired of being strung along by your attachment issues. I know your family, John. I've met them all. Yet you introduced me as a friend. After each deployment, you sought solace in my arms, whispering promises you never intended to keep. I've had enough."
"I can change, just give me a chance—" he pleaded.
"No," you said firmly. "You want fun, I want commitment.I won't demand something you're incapable of giving. But I refuse to be ensnared in this farce any longer. Leave my home, and never return”
"It's a misunderstanding, please, just listen—" he begged.
"You called me by the wrong name," you said, your voice breaking. "While I made breakfast, you were texting someone else. You even made plans with them while we were supposed to watch a movie together. It's clear to me now."
John left, leaving behind a mess of emotions. You cried, but you also felt a sense of relief. Next time, you promised yourself, you would ask for honesty from the start, before getting caught up in another tangled web of confusion.
__________________________
GAZ : waiting for someone who doesn’t wait for you.
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You stood there, shivering in the biting cold, lips pallid, hands tingling crimson from the chill, yet refusing to let a single tear betray your anguish.
As each shop shuttered its windows, the empty streets echoed with the hollow sound of your hopes crumbling, brick by brick.
You clung to the belief that Gaz would never abandon you, not after everything. So you lingered, a lone figure in the twilight, yearning for his arrival.
But when he finally materialized, it was a dagger to your heart. His arms wrapped around another, their laughter slicing through the silence like shards of glass.
Together they sauntered into the very restaurant where he had promised to take you, where they shared a meal that should have been yours.
Fingers trembling, you reached for your phone, desperate to bridge the chasm between you and him.
Yet he flicked his device off with callous disregard, leaving you to drown in a sea of unanswered questions.
Why? Why would he toy with your emotions like this, dangling the prospect of reconciliation before your weary eyes only to snatch it away?
He had been the one to reach out, resurrecting memories of a bygone era when you were each other's world in high school, planting seeds of hope for a future together.
And foolishly, you had clung to those promises, waiting with bated breath for his return, even as the minutes stretched into hours.
You had always been waiting for him.
You had always been the one chasing after Gaz, in school, in matters of the heart, in the delicate dance of friendship.
But now, as you trudged towards the desolate bus station, the bitter irony of it all weighed heavily upon your shoulders.
The clock struck midnight, and a message flashed across your screen, belated apologies dripping with insincerity from him.
 In that moment, the truth became painfully clear: you had always made time for him, carving out precious moments in your hectic existence, while he couldn't spare a single second to offer a genuine excuse, a shred of explanation.
And so, as the bus rumbled towards an uncertain destination, you vowed to reclaim the pieces of yourself that you had willingly sacrificed at the altar of his indifference.
 For in the end, you realized, the only person worth waiting for was the one who would never keep you waiting in the first place.
__________________________
Price : he loved you. You love him.
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You watch as his fiancée weeps, tears staining your own cheeks. It's not the same for you. It's not joy, it's sorrow.
Yet, despite the ache in your heart, your eyes betray you as they linger on how handsome John looks in his pristine white suit. Your heart, it seems, has impeccable taste.
You hear him uttering his vows, the crowd erupting in cheers.
But your mind is fixated solely on the fading of his smile. You know it's just your own jealousy speaking, suggesting that perhaps he harbors a secret desire to halt this union.
You despise it, yet you can't silence the relentless overthinking that observes how he subtly recoils when their hands touch, how his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, like a fleeting shadow of itself.
But now is the time for speeches, or forever hold your peace, isn't it?
And your decision has been made, etched into the stars since the day he shared his dreams of them, seeking your approval.
The festivities commence, and you remain composed, aloof, deliberately distant from him, from them. You're afraid—afraid of divulging everything, afraid of shattering it all.
"You've been keeping to yourself," he remarks.
"Is that an inquiry, Captain?" you retort, a hint of sarcasm lacing your words.
"You're not in the military, don't call me that, dear."
You manage a wry smile.
"I don't fare well in crowds," you confess.
"I know," he acknowledges softly. "I just wanted a moment to talk."
"About what?" you inquire cautiously.
"You seem distant, from everyone," he observes.
"I... I just need time to recuperate from something, nothing significant," you deflect.
"Is it... physical?" he probes.
"No," you reply curtly.
"Emotional?"
"John."
"I just want to understand," he persists.
"Ignorance is bliss," you murmur, a trace of bitterness tainting your words.
"Yes, but not when it comes to you," he counters.
"John, please don't push," you plead.
"I will.You can't just shut me out like this," he insists, his brows furrowing in exasperation.
"Watch me," you retort, your jaw set stubbornly.
"Why are you like this?" he demands, his voice rising slightly with pent-up frustration.
"Like what?" you counter, your own patience wearing thin.
"Closed off. Distant. It's like you've built a wall between us," he argues, his words laced with hurt.
"Maybe I have," you admit, your voice softening just a fraction.
"Why?" he implores, his eyes searching yours for answers.
Irritation flares within you, fatigue settling in. You've had your fill of this celebration, of the clamor, of the happiness that seems so out of reach.
And then, it slips out.
"I love you. Satisfied now?" you snap.
His expression morphs, a mixture of shock and disbelief.
"You can't just drop that bombshell on me," he whispers, his voice tinged with betrayal.
"I warned you, John. Don't try to shift the blame onto me," you retort, your tone strained.
"Why... Why didn't you say anything before?" he implores, his frustration evident.
"Because you paraded around with people who bore no resemblance to me? Because our friendship means everything to me, and I couldn't risk it," you confess, your voice trembling with emotion.
His anger simmers beneath the surface.
"Listen, I'm sorry. Let's forget this, you have your fiancée and—"
"I loved you too," he interjects, his admission cutting through the air like a knife.
"What?" you gasp, stunned.
"Before my fiancée, I... I was utterly in love with you. I... damn it, we could have... Why didn't you say anything?" he laments, his voice thick with regret.
"John, no," you murmur, your heart breaking all over again.
"I love her now," he adds hastily, as if trying to extinguish the flicker of hope that ignited within you.
"You can't drop this bombshell now. It's cruel," you whisper, your voice choked with emotion.
"I know," he admits, his gaze dropping in shame.
"You're a coward. You've moved on, and now you leave me with this 'what if,'" you accuse, the words bitter on your tongue.
"It'll fade," he offers weakly.
-"Fuck you, John," you hiss, the finality of your words hanging heavy in the air.
-You never see him again after the wedding. You couldn't bear to, not to his fiancée, not to him, not to yourself. Perhaps, you muse bitterly, ignorance truly is bliss.
if you want more : my masterlist
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allsadnshit · 3 months ago
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Roasted Japanese pumpkin and asparagus soup with lemon and black pepper + local flat iron steak with a pan sauce made with French extra strength dijon + local plum jam + salted butter to finish
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bettergeology · 7 months ago
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Taking a stroll in the ephemeral brines of Death Valley.
As a basin completely isolated from the sea, Death Valley is the ultimate sink and final destination for all of the surface and groundwater for an immense area of eastern California and central Nevada. Following an unusually wet summer and winter of 2023/2024, a lake as deep as 3 feet filled the salt pan on the flood of Death Valley and brought back a glimpse of how it must have looked when the valley contained a permanent lake in the geologic past.
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Strong winds during my last visit actually pushed the lake some two miles to the north, churning up the sediment and mud of the lake bottom and turning the water to the color and consistency of chocolate milk. As the salty water evaporates from the surrounding mud, it draws the salt into long, threadlike crystals that turn the salt flats fuzzy for a brief time.
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tangerine-dream-machine · 3 months ago
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do you wanna see the west with me?
Notes below!
This is not a realistic road trip at all, but here are the places/activities shown:
Yorktown Battlefield, Virginia: the site where General Cornwallis surrendered in 1781, bringing the end of the Revolutionary War
Liberty Bell, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania: the famous bell with the message "Proclaim Liberty Throughout All the Land Unto All the Inhabitants thereof", and later a symbol of liberty for abolitionists and suffragists
Drive-in theater: outdoor cinemas that reached their peak in popularity in the 1950s to 60s; the film is The Searchers (1956)
Kayaking: a fun lake/ocean activity
Trail of Tears National Historic Trail: this trail crosses nine states and follows the forced displacement of Cherokees, Chickasaws, Choctaws, Muscogees, and Seminoles due to the Indian Removal Act in 1830
Traffic (and billboards): a bane to many and common in car-dependent cities
Cedar Hill Cemetery, Vicksburg, Mississippi: one of the oldest cemeteries in the US still being used; predates the Civil War and includes a Confederate burial site
Devil's Tower, Wyoming: a majestic (and sacred) butte and the first US national monument
Bonneville Salt Flats, Utah: a flat, empty salt pan estimated to hold 147 million tons of salt and a popular racing site
Old Faithful, Yellowstone National Park, Wyoming: a geyser in the world's first national park known for its reliable eruptions
Gas station, Nowhere, USA
Horseback riding, Montana: no comment, just a fun time
Las Vegas, Nevada: the world renowned Sin City, a place that caters to many vices
Stanley R. Mickelsen Safeguard Complex, North Dakota: group of missile defense facilities including missile silos and the pyramid-shaped radar system; built in 1975 and decommissioned after one day of operation, a "monument to man's fear and ignorance"
Hoover Dam, Nevada and Arizona: hydroelectric power plant on the Colorado River; the highest dam in the world at the time of its completion in 1935
Space Needle, Seattle, Washington: an observation tower with a revolving restaurant built for the 1962 World Fair "Living in the Space Age", a theme chosen to show the US was not lagging behind the USSR in the Space Race
Sequoia National Park, California: home of the world's largest tree by volume (General Sherman) and the highest point in the contiguous US (Mount Whitney)
Muir Beach Overlook, California: a former base station overlook with dugouts that gained importance immediately after the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941 as a means to watch for attacks on nearby San Francisco
@usukweek
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bunabi · 10 months ago
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oh wait, please, please share an air fryer bread recipe 🙏
I follow this recipe but divide the dough into two big halves
Then I throw one half into my smallest pan, heat up some salted butter, use the flat end of a spoon to draw a hatching pattern into the dough, and pour the butter over the top so it oozes into the cracks
I preheat my air fryer for 1 minute at 360, then I lower the heat to 290 and bake for 15 minutes
Once it's all done and golden brown I drizzle lots of honey on top
And bam that's the Bunabi Bread check it outttt
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