#paloma’s pen

[paloma-writes-about-hellfire]

🌹🌹🌹

As children, we are taught that we need only to do our best and that will be enough; but what happens when your best is never enough?

"She’s hard on herself so that other people don’t have the chance to be; she tries to desensitize herself to the bastards, but in the end she just gets hurt twice as much,” sighs Charlie.

Liv is filled with nostalgia; these have always been her favourite kind of morning, and she can almost see a phantom of her child self, racing ahead of Daniella and skipping among the leaves.

[a-girl-and-her-quotes]

Paloma Faith

[deathby1000sluts]

why did no one told me paris paloma was such a lyricist?!

[phoward89]

Based on this ask

Warning ⚠️ Coriolanus Snow is his own warning, child gets hurt (nothing major), unruly mobs, poison, hanging tree

“Daddy!” Cassian Xanthos excitedly exclaimed, running over to Coriolanus as you followed behind him, your belly just starting to swell with your second child so you're still able to keep up with your little blonde rugrat.

“Did Mommy bring you here to help me run the country, Cass?” Your husband asked your son, who was his spitting image at 4 years old. The little boy had the same light platinum blonde curls, the same baby blue eyes, the same prominent nose, long legs, and toothy grin.

A grin that was missing something.

“I finally lost my tooth!” Cassian proudly announced, climbing up onto your husband's lap as he sat at his desk in his presidential office.

“Yeah? Let me see it.” Coriolanus beamed, giving your son a proud smile.

You couldn't help, but to melt at the interaction you were watching unfold before your very eyes. Coriolanus, despite being a cold, callous, stern, calculated, iron-fisted leader, was a very loving husband and father. Around you and your son, he was a different man. A man that let his guard down, let himself have emotions.

Coriolanus presented himself to the public as a hard man and rarely talked about his family. The only ones that knew how much his family meant to him was the presidential mansion staff. And they knew better than to cross their boss. The staff knew that if they wanted to keep breathing and assure that their families didn't wind up banished to the districts that it's best to ignore how soft the cold hearted President Snow was with his family.

“Cass, put your tooth under your pillow tonight and the tooth fairy will collect your tooth; give you a reward.” Your husband told your son, making the little boy smile and giggle in excitement.

Coriolanus made sure to incorporate all of those little traditions he grew up with. The ones Grandma’am had shared with him when he was a little orphan boy, growing up alone and afraid during a war.

“Last time I lost a tooth, the tooth fairy gived me a gold coin.” Cassian. Xandros chirped.

Coriolanus cringed at hearing his son's improper grammar. Looking down at his boy, your husband corrected him with, “It's the tooth fairy gave me a gold coin, not gived.”

“Okay.” Cassian simply smiled.

Looking away from the little boy in his lap and over to you, Coriolanus asked, “Have the maids finished packing our bags for our trip to 12?”

Your husband, being the President, had to take trips to the districts to deal with things. It was mostly meetings with PK commanders and mayors, sometimes a few other things such as productivity at a factory or a mine. But he never went into full details with you about it. You usually just had to deal with him bitching about the incompetent people he had to meet with.

You also got stuck attending dinners with the PK commanders, mayors, and their families. Coryo always brought his family along on his business trips for that very reason. So that his family could smooze with the family of whoever he was stuck meeting with. Your husband was all about networking.

“Yes.” You nodded, leaning against the edge of his desk and resting your hand on your barely there baby bump. “Paloma, placed the bags in the foyer of the living quarters; I think the chauffeur's loading them into the car soon.

“As soon as I'm done with my paperwork we'll head out.” Coriolanus informed you, picking up his pen and resuming his paperwork while letting his son sit on his lap.

“Okay, but why do we have to go to 12? We both hate it there, can't you just send one of your staff to handle whatever mine dispute is going on?”

“Darling, I can't send an assistant. I need to handle this myself because, apparently, the last time I sent an assistant nothing got done.”

“Daddy, why you and Mommy hate 12?” Your son innocently asked your husband.

You narrowed your eyes at Coryo, silently warning him that the story of you two’s past in 12 wasn't fitting for the ears of a 4 year old little boy.

Yea… Telling your son that Coriolanus and you met each other when he was a Peacekeeper (and that he was supposed to be Lucy Gray’s beau), that he paid for an apartment you shared (he was supposed to live in the barracks, but he always seemed to sneak in and out before wakeup call), and brought you back to the Capitol with him wasn't a good idea. He was too young; wouldn't understand.

Hell, you're hoping that Cassian never learns the truth about how you and Coryo got together. It's just too complicated. Maybe even somewhat embarrassing in a way.

Your husband gave your son his old puppy plushie from his childhood. It was a plushie that your son slept with. He had to take it with him during trips, or else he'd be up all night crying without it. Cassian Xandros couldn't sleep without his plushie, Puppers.

And Puppers couldn't be packed in the suitcase. No, your son has to carry that plushie with him when going somewhere. Sticking it in the luggage gives him panic attacks.

And dealing with a 4 year old having a panic attack’s no easy feat. Especially when that child's the carbon copy of Coriolanus Snow. Oh boy…the panic attacks that Cassian would have over thinking his Puppers was lost were on a whole different level.

Like the end of the world, the 2nd apocalypse, and WW4 type of level. The little boy was unconsolable while having one. You would always hold your son and assure him that everything was fine. You'd whisper reassuring words to him and comfort him while your husband would find the puppy plushie and shove it into your son's hands.

Safe to say, it was easier to just let Cassian carry Puppers the puppy plushie onto the train with him then to pack it up.

“Daddy, did you bring Puppers on trips when you was little?” Cassian Xandros asked his father while sitting on his lap, looking out the window of the Presidential train car your family had just boarded half an hour earlier.

“It's when you were little, Cass.” Coriolanus corrected your son’s grammar, like he always did.

You just smiled from your spot on the sofa, eating some fruit while watching your favorite boys. They're two peas in a pod. You know that Cassian Xandros is most likely going to follow in his father's political footsteps when he's older. You can see it already.

“No.” Coryo shook his head. A faraway look appeared in your husband's icy blue eyes as he looked out the window over your son's head of platinum curls. Looking down at the little boy in his lap, a thin line of a smile appeared on his face as he explained, “I didn't go on trips as a little boy because things were scary back then. Panem wasn't safe like it is now.”

Looking at his dad, who was his hero, Cassian asked, “And you make it safe, right daddy? Cause you's President?”

“Yes, your daddy makes the country very safe because he's the president.” You answered Cassian before Coriolanus had the chance to correct his grammar.

And it's true, your husband had put many laws, rules, and regulations in effect when it came to the law and order of the country; to keep Panem safe. To keep the country running smoothly. Your husband had seen many horrors in his short life, more than you and that's something considering that you grew up in the districts. Your husband had an obsessive need for control and order; it showed in his political policies.

You never got into it. As First Lady your job was to just smile, go to charity events, host tea parties, etc. Oh, you also collected gossip for your husband, that he used to make decisions about who he should and shouldn't eliminate. But, as First Lady, your role wasn't as a ruler- that was your husband's job. Coriolanus was the President, he oversaw the country and you’re just his sidekick.

“You're mommy’s right.” Coryo smiled, only to ruffle his son's light blonde curls and correct his grammar, once again, with, “And it's because you're President, not cause you’s President, Cass.”

The trip from Capitol City, Panem to District 12, Panem was a very long and boring journey. Traveling from the Rockies to Appalachia was always a soul sucking experience. You and your husband avoid traveling to District 12 like the plague, but unfortunately it couldn't be avoided. It seems that the route was long and full of nothing to look at, but a few old crumbling ruins of ancient Pre-Panem cities.

Cassian Xandros, being a little boy, was excited when the train passed by the remnants of the ancient places. “Mommy, Daddy, what District that?”

Never looking up from his reports, Coriolanus told your son, “It's not a district son, it's the ancient city of Pittsburgh.”

“What happened?” The little boy, who inherited both his father's looks and thirst for knowledge, asked.

“Don't worry about it, buddy. You'll learn about it when you're older in school.”

“But daddy-” Cassian Xandros began, only for the president to sternly cut him off with, “I told you not to worry about it, Cassian.”

Seeing the dejected look on your son's face paired with his low lip quivering made you decide that your husband needed a talking to. That you're going to straighten him out. So, giving your son a soft smile, you suggested in a sweet and motherly tone, “Why don't you go to the dining car and ask an Avox for some ice cream? Hmm?”

‘Okay, mommy.” Cassian nodded, a ghost of a smile on his lips, before taking off to go get his ice cream. A treat that you knew would make him feel better; would also get him out of the suite long enough for you to tell off your husband.

As soon as the door to the train car closed, you gave your husband a disgruntled look and told him, ‘Coriolanus, I understand that you're tense because we're almost at 12, but that doesn't give you the right to snap at Cassian. He's just curious about why there's ancient ruins outside of the Districts along the train tracks.”

“I need to prepare for my upcoming meetings, darling. I don't have time to conduct history lessons with a 4 year old right now.” Coryo said dismissively, as if everything you just told him wasn't important. As if his goddamn paperwork was more important.

Well it wasn't and you're going to let him know that.

“You're not the only one that's on edge about this visit to 12, Coryo.” Your said, causing your husband to look at you. Shaking your head, you admitted, “I haven't seen my brother Rein since he disowned me; called me a sellout and a whore when I became your girl. Going back there, not knowing how my family's going to react seeing me as your pregnant First Lady; the mother of your son, terrifies me.”

And your estranged family's opinion of you, after all of these years, did have you worried. You didn't part with Rein and his girlfriend, Ashlie, on the best of terms. They made you choose between them and a Capitol born and bred peacekeeper, Private Snow. You, in the end, picked Coryo. The man that took care of you while you lived in 12, who took you with him when he got discharged and sent back to the Capitol. The man who married you despite the way his Grandma’am turned her nose down at you.

The last time you saw your brother it was when you were on stage with your husband while he was giving a speech during a presidential campaign tour. Although district citizens can't vote, Capitol citizens and those serving the Capitol in the Peacekeepers can. So, Coryo decided to do a district tour to boost morale and votes of the Peacekeepers. He even made sure to use his background as one along with the fact that his father was General Crassus Snow during the election too.

But that was around the time you discovered you were pregnant, so…

“But I'm not taking it out on Cass; I won't sit back and watch you do that, Coryo.” You told your husband, needing him to know that your son couldn't be an emotional punching bag.

Setting his paperwork aside, Coryo stood up and sighed, “You're brother, Rein, and that ratty whore of his are idiots.” Going over to the sofa and taking a seat next to you, your husband snaked an arm around you, bringing you to lean your head against his chest. “I'm sorry that being with me caused such a rift between you and your family; you should've told me you've been feeling apprehensive about this trip.”

“Coryo, you know that I get over emotional from pregnancy hormones. I didn't want to bother you with my feelings about this trip.” You told Coriolanus, feeling like you're ready to burst into tears at any second.

At that very moment, your son walked back into the train car with an ice cream cone in his hand. Seeing you so sad and his daddy trying to make you feel better, Cassian Xandros went over to Coriolanus, only to hold his ice cream out and say, “Daddy, mommy’s sad. Give her my ice cream; then she'll be happy.”

“No, you eat it, sweetie.” You told your son while holding your husband's hand; preventing him from taking the ice cream.

You knew that Coryo would take the ice cream under the guise of giving it to you, but would eat it himself once you turned the treat down. Your husband has an odd relationship with free food…

“Do you want Puppers instead? He always makes me feel better.” Cassian asked, licking his chocolate ice cream cone that had every single once covered by chocolate sprinkles. That was definitely something your son got from his Snow genes. The love of chocolate.

“Oh, I'm fine, Cassian. Your baby sister's just making me a little dramatic.”

“But I thought Auntie Tigris said that daddy the drama queen in the family.”

“Looks like visits with Auntie Tigris are coming to an end.” Coriolanus coldly muttered under his breath.

“President Snow, Sir, we’ve arrived.” A Peacekeeper announced, walking into the presidential train car once the train has stopped.

“Thank you.” Your husband nodded, only to stand up and look towards you and your son. “It's time to go meet the mayor.”

“Is it still Mayor Lipp?” You wondered, standing up with your son and going over to Coriolanus.

You haven't set foot in 12 since Coriolanus did a presidential campaign tour years ago, before you had Cassian, so you had no idea what was going on politically in the district. Honestly, you didn't care either. But, you did need to know who the mayor was since that's who was housing your family for your visit.

“Yes, that wretched fool’s still the mayor.”

“Mister President, Sir.” The Peacekeeper acknowledged your husband, only to turn to you and say, “First Lady, Ma’am.”, before stating, “A Peacekeeper, says his name's Smiley, is here to escort you to the barracks.”

A puzzled look appeared on your face. “The barracks? But we're staying with the mayor.”

“According to this Smiley, Ma’am, the Commander here in 12 has made new arrangements for the Presidential family.”

“Smiley’ll tell us what's going on, darling. Don't worry, we'll be fine.” Coriolanus assured you, since he didn't want you to get yourself in a tizzy while in your delicate condition. He was always so protective of you when you're carrying his child.

But there was a need to worry. Unknown to Coriolanus and you, the miners were striking and protesting. And not just a few of them, but all of them. Apparently they were tired of working long hours underground in dangerous circumstances without being properly compensated.

The protests started at the mines, but by the time your train arrived at the depot, the station was swarming with District 12 miners demanding to be treated like human beings instead of slave labor. Peacekeepers were lined up, keeping them at bay with rifles drawn and threats to shoot. It was so bad that the Commander was afraid for the safety of Coriolanus and his family. Honestly, none of you should be there, but it was too late to cancel the meeting between the President, the mining bosses, the mayor, and the Commander of District 12.

So, the Commander sent Smiley to greet President Coriolanus Snow and to inform him of what's going on. To act as a makeshift bodyguard because the two men are friends.

Well, your husband only used his old bunkmate as a contact to keep tabs on District 12, but friend sounded much better.

“Coryo…” You trailed off, looking up at your husband. You were tucked into his side as he had an arm protectively wrapped around you, hand on your round belly. His other arm was holding your son against his chest in a vice tighter than that of a boa constrictor.

Cassian Xandros had his head buried in his father's chest, clutching tightly to his puppy plushie. The loud noise of the crowd of miners and protesters was clearly frightening him. To be honest, it frightened you too.

These people crowding around you were out for blood. You could sense that if the Peacekeepers weren't keeping them at bay, then the crowd would rush you and your family; tear you apart limb by limb- because they're angry at how they're living compared to how your family's living.

“We'll be at the van soon; then we'll go to the base and won't have to deal with the protestors anymore.” Coryo assured you, keeping a stern look on his face as he led the way towards the van as angry miners and their families shouted profanities. Smiley was up ahead, clearing the way, while the personal guards (peacekeepers) that came on the trip from the Presidential Palace flanked you.

It felt so unsettling, this short walk from the depot to the van that'll take your family to the base. To safety.

It should've been easy to get to the van, considering all the presence of the peacekeepers, but it wasn't. Because nothing in your life, in Coriolanus' life, can be easy.

No….

Because right before you reached the Peacekeepers’ van, the unthinkable happened.

“Should’ve stayed in the Capitol, sellout whore!” You heard your older brother's voice yell before feeling spit land on your cheek.

President Coriolanus Snow should've keep walking, guiding his family thru the crowd to the nearby van, but hearing his brother-in-law call his First Lady a sellout whore made him see red. Made him furious.

Motioning to one of the presidential Peacekeeper guards, Coriolanus ordered, “Arrest that man for assaulting my wife, First Lady Y/N Snow.”

The peacekeeper nodded, only to grab your brother (who put up a good struggle) and cuff him. Your brother was cussing up a storm while the crowd was screaming to let him go, that Rein didn't do anything. The protesters screamed that Rein was innocent; was being falsely arrested by the cruel, dictator President Snow.

But you know what Rein did to cause his arrest. He insulted you and spit in your face. In Coryo's eyes was that assault; something unforgivable.

But the crowd of miners and protesters (some of which were rebels and their sympathizers) didn't see it that way. All they saw was an ‘innocent’ man being carted away.

You don't know how it started, but suddenly people broke thru the lines and tried to swarm you, your husband, and your son. Smiley and your Capitol Peacekeeper guards were beating back the crowd so that your husband could whisk his family to the Peacekeepers van.

And you would've made it to the van unscathed to, if it wasn't for the moltov cocktail that somebody threw at your husband as he ushered you towards the van.

You heard the crash of the bottle and smelted the chemicals before your son's cries of pain sounded out. Turning around, as one of the Peacekeepers by the van shoved you into it, you saw flames licking at your son's back and at your husband's arm. A piece of glass from the broken moltov bottle was embedded in your husband's jaw as blood flowed freely from it.

A pair of Peacekeepers rushed over to your husband, patting the flames out of both his arm and your son's back.

“Daddy, it hurts.” Your son cried, referring to his boiled flesh.

‘Radio the hospital on base, I want the best treatment for my son.” President Snow ordered the peacekeeper that was pushing him towards the van, where you were sitting anxiously.

“Mister President, Sir, we'll get him to the hospital on base right away.” The peacekeeper assured your husband as he joined you in the van.

Coriolanus just nodded at the peacekeeper, causing the man to hop into the back of the van. You and Coriolanus tried your best to soothe your son as the peacekeeper sitting next to your husband barked for the driver to get to base; to radio the on base hospital to let them know that President Snow's son is suffering a burn on his back from the mob’s attack.

Of course, the peacekeeper driving to the base did as he was told. So, when your family arrived at PK Base D12 a stretcher with a medic and a doctor was waiting for your son.

Coryo was holding Cassian’s puppy plushie so hard, you thought the thing’s head was going to pop off and the stuffing would fly out, as the two of you were escorted into your son's hospital room by his attending nurse. His burns weren't bad enough for surgery, but they were bad enough that they needed cleaned, treated with ointment, and bandaged. The nurse explained that Cassian Xandros was asleep due to a dose of morphling he was given for the pain.

Despite him being asleep and on pain meds, you and Coryo just had to see him. Had to sit with him. Your baby boy was hurt, you both needed to be by his side.

Coriolanus might've been a lot of things, but he was a very loving and devoted husband; father. Seeing his son hurt because people didn't like him made him furious. He didn't care if somebody went after him, but going after his family was an entirely different thing.

And those District dogs that wanted prime rib instead of the scraps they got for mining coal all damn day are going to pay. They were going to pay dearly for hurting his son.

Because nobody hurts what's his and gets away with it.

Coriolanus canceled his meetings concerning the mine production, only to have the mine bosses rounded up in the middle of the night and thrown into jail. The reason? Well, they allowed their workers to turn into a violent mob; they didn't keep them in line. 

The President ordered the mine bosses to be executed at the hanging tree for being an accessory to the crimes of their mining employees.

Talk about executions…

President Snow had 100 miners rounded up and sent to the gallows as punishment for what happened to your son. It didn't matter that those people weren't the ones that threw the moltov cocktail. They were disgruntled district 12 citizens. They protested and pushed back; causing a rebellion. 

They're rebels.

Rebels! 

So they had to hang to serve as an example; a lesson on what happens when one goes against the Capitol. Dares to bite the hand that feeds it.

And your older brother, Rein. 

Well…

Your husband's currently having a meeting with him in his jail cell. 

“Heard you hung 100 innocent people.” Rein told Coriolanus as the imposing platinum blonde devil took set a thermos down on the table your brother was chained too.

“Those scum were not innocent. Their little rebellious outburst hurt my son and scared my pregnant wife.” Coriolanus told his brother-in-law, who he hasn't seen in a good 5 years, while taking a seat across from him. “I don't play around when it comes to the safety of my family, Mr. Halvir.” The president told the dark haired man, who had broad shoulders due to years of work in the coal mines, while reaching for the thermos. 

Rein narrowed his Seam grey eyes at President Snow. A man he hates for turning you against your kind, against the district that you were born and raised in. Oh, how your brother hates your husband for being your keeper, for turning you into a Capitol puppet.

Unscrewing the thermos’ lid, Coriolanus made the condescending remark of, “You should know that first hand, considering how I moved Y/N out of your shithole hovel in the Seam once she became mine.” 

“You made her choose between you and us when she was too young to even understand the damning consequences of that choice. I hope your kid brings home somebody you hate; somebody that drives a wedge in your perfectly fucked up Presidential First Family.”  Rein snarled at Coriolanus while the platinum blonde man poured some of the hot tea from the thermos into a plastic cup- that also served as a topper for the thermos.

“Mmm…” Your husband hummed, tasting the tea. “Still hot.” He remarked, setting the tea down in front of your older brother. Gesturing to the plastic cup, Coriolanus simply said, “For you.”

Rein looked between the cup and Coriolanus, only to nod and take it. His chains were long enough to make it possible for him to pick up the cup and bring it to his lips, but short enough to ensure that he couldn't lunge across the table to do the president any harm.

“How's your boy?” Rein asked, sipping on the tea. 

“Why do you care? He's just the product of a Capitol snake and a sellout whore, isn't he?” Coriolanus seethed, hate dripping from every word like venom. Leaning forward, eyes watching the miner intently as he sipped on the tea, he asked, “Do you have any little bastards running around?”

“No.” Rein shook his head. Setting down his cup, he said, “Me and Ashlie decided not to have kids. That it's not worth it, with the risk of reapings and all.”

Coriolanus’ lips twisted into a cruel smile. “Then the Halvir name dies with you.”

Rein's Seam grey eyes flashed with confusion, only for realization to shine in them as he began to feel his throat close up. Clawing at his neck, in a desperate, but useless attempt for air, your brother realized that your husband had poisoned him. He began to feel his blood boil on his body, feel it bubble up from his stomach and travel up his throat. Shaking, he used the last bit of his strength to muster out the word, “Why?”

Coriolanus pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, only to use it to stifle a small, bloody cough. A small side effect of drinking poison, but at least he had taken the antidote prior. He smiled wickedly, a thin layer of crimson staining his teeth, as he told Rein, “Your little stunt caused that crowd to attack me; to hurt my son. Anyone that hurts my family will pay with their lives.” 

Watching the light dim in your brother's eyes as blood pooled uncontrollably from his mouth and nose, your husband leaned over him and whispered, “Snow lands on top.”

Tags: @kuroosbby001 @purriteen @poppyflower-22 @meetmeatyourworst @whipwhoops @bxtchopolis @readingthingsonhere @savagenctzen @ryswritingrecord @erikasurfer @tulips2715 @universal-s1ut @thesmutconnoisseur @squidscottjeans @sudek4l @wearemadeofstardust0 @mashiromochi @gracieroxzy @belcalis9503 @shari-berri @aoi-targaryen @whiteoakoak @spear-bearing-bi-witch @gisellesprettylies @loverandqueenofdragons @qoopeeya @mfnqueen1 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @v-love @swiftieblyth @joyfulyouthlover @harvey-malfoy @tian-monique @chxrrybomb22 @marvel-hiddles-stark @twinkletwinklenotastar @xjinnix @devils-blackrose @shellybellysstuff @zombicupcake3

[girlwtdragontattoo]

Notre Dame

Stardew Valley Elliott x Female Farmer

Art belongs to @eindersein, please give them some love for this beautiful piece!

Hi! I wrote this, inspired by Paris' song, thinking Elliott and the farmer would definitely bond by exchanging ideas and reminiscing about their time in the city. I didn't really proof-read this all too well, I just really wanted a cute fluffy fic. I hope you enjoy!

Please also give the song a listen, it's beautiful!

-----

Elliott woke up from the sunlight warming his eyes. He had managed to make it into bed this time, an irregular occurrence as his constant back and neck pain proved. His desk usually served as his resting spot.

His long red hair tug under his arm, while he lifted his head, making him shift to free his tresses. Peering out into the beautiful afternoon light from outside, an immediate need to walk out and explore the sleepy town came over him.

Nowadays, there was a little more commotion than usual: the arrival of the mysterious farmer caused the villagers to stir, gossip and diverge from their routines just for a chance to meet her. Leah had already encountered the newcomer and expressed, a bit obviously, that Elliott would be very fond of her. He didn’t take his friend’s word for it, as she also assumed he would get along swimmingly with Shane. Despite having tried to greet him kindly many times, the downtrodden Joja Worker barely acknowledged him.

He would never admit it to Leah, but the writer was indeed curious. Mostly, because a new addition to an established town was the first time something interesting had happened here! It could be great inspiration for his novel. Maybe he’d write about a mysterious, retired detective, moving to a small town and causing the same ruckus as the farmer had in Stardew Valley.

Elliott brushed his mane, put on the clothes he wore every day and checked his reflection. Pocketing his trusty notebook, in case inspiration hit on the go, he stepped out on to the sunny beach and breathed in the crisp, November air.

The beach was mostly quiet, as it usually was in Fall. He saw Willy fishing absentmindedly on the deck, too absorbed in his own thoughts to notice Elliott had emerged from his shack. The writer saw him every day, it wouldn’t hurt to not speak for one of them. He wanted to enjoy the inspiring weather and take a trip into the forest a few miles away.

The redhaired writer crossed the stone bridge, waving at Lewis while he raked the fallen leaves in front of his house. He saw the grumbling Shane return to his aunt’s house after an early Joja Mart shift, but decided to leave him alone, walking a few measured steps behind him to avoid upsetting him further.

He passed Leah’s home, thinking briefly if he should stop by to say hello. Deciding he could do so on the way back, Elliott continued his stride into the beckoning woods. The number of leaves on the earth amplified the closer he got, the soft crunching under his brogues made him smile. He loved Fall. Not only due to it being his birthday season, but also because it provided a picture-esque setting for a romantic writer like himself. 

The trees started to clump closer together as he crossed the threshold into the forest. They swayed slightly in the cold breeze.

Elliott found a spot near a small babbling brooke, situated himself comfortably against a large tree and pulled out his notebook. He gazed up into the tree tops, watching the colorful leaves abandon their homes to fall down towards him. What a sight. He picked up a large, red maple leaf that drifted to his side, eyeing the vivacious color with adoration. Placing the pretty thing on his knee, the writer pulled out his trusty pen and started writing a few sentences.

The wind sang in his ear, as the hours passed. He collected interesting leaves that fell close to him, while he tapped the back of his pen onto the page. The words he was writing were alright, but not fascinating enough. There had to be something else here that would spark his roaring imaginatio-

“Oh- hey there!”

A soft voice pulled Elliott out of his writing trance. Looking up from his page, he met the eyes of a stranger. She wore a pair of hunter green dungarees, with a thick, white sweater underneath. Her sleeves were pulled up to her elbows, displaying strong forearms littered with fascinating tattoos. On top of her head rested a wide sun hat, that cast a long shadow down her front.

Elliott couldn’t help but blush at her shaded visage. It was the eyes that pulled him in, like mountain vistas painted by genius minds. She blinked.

“H-Hello!” he spat out hastily, as the pause between her kind greeting and him noticing her grew a bit too long. “You must be the farmer!”

She smiled and the writer’s inner voice squeaked at the sight of it. “Yup, that’s me! I’m YN.” She held out her hand.

Their palms met and he felt her callouses: “Elliott.” He realized he hadn’t returned her gentle smile and quickly remedied that by flashing his teeth. “I didn’t think anyone really came here. Apologies for my demeanor. I just wasn’t expecting to see anyone.”

“Oh no worries, I just discovered this place a few days ago. I wanted to take a break from work. Do you mind?” the farmer indicated that she wanted to join him, but stayed standing up.

“Yes!” the writer exclaimed excitedly. The excited answer obviously confused YN and he watched an eyebrow raise in response. Elliott noticed his mistake: “I mean- no I do not mind. Please.” He patted the spot next to him, clearing his throat in embarrassment. She smiled again, making his heart skip a few beats, and she joined him, placing a large guitar down into the grass. Elliott was surprised to see it appear out of nowhere, but he had to confess to himself that he hadn’t noticed anything other than her face and clothes when she arrived. She wrapped her arms around her knees, staring up into the dancing branches.

“So, Elliott…”, she began, “what’s your story?”

They sat for a while, exchanging their virgin journey to Stardew Valley. Elliott grew transfixed when he noticed she really listened to what he said. Did she... actually find what he said interesting?

She shared her decision to leave ZuZu city. “I hated my job. I felt like I was trapped and stowed away in that building. Like Quasimodo, haha!”

“That’s funny. That’s sort of how I felt back there. I couldn’t … let my head explore. It was so loud and disorienting being there. My mind seemed to emulate the chaos around me.”

“That’s such a poetic way of putting it.” She started plucking at the guitar strings while she stared up into the yellow crowns. Elliott didn’t answer. He saw little hearts float behind her head.

“I’m so curious what you’re writing! If you ever want someone to read over it, feel free to ask. I love stuff like that.”

Elliott nodded frantically; his heart felt a surge at the thought of her reading his drafts.

They sat beside each other in silence, but it wasn’t awkward. He felt extremely at ease near her, which ironically made him a bit uneasy. What was this sensation?

The longer they sat beside each other, the more consistent the melody became that she was plucking.

“How long have you been practicing music? I play the piano!” He wanted to learn as much as he could about her.

“Cool! I’ve been doing it since I can remember. But this guitar is new. I bought it right before Grandpa passed away. I love it, it’s so much easier to tune.” As she said that, she turned one of the dials to fix a string. “Maybe we can play together. Do you sing?”

Elliott giggled at the thought of him singing anything. He wasn’t awful, but you couldn't pay anyone to listen to him. He repeated the sentiment, feeling his face prickle when she chuckled.

“You're funny." His breath seized for a brief moment. "Well, then. I’ll sing and you can play? How does that sound?”

He couldn’t help but let the words tumble out: “We could write songs together.”

Her eyes started to glow. He felt a lump in his throat at the sight of her. He could’ve cried. He had a great relationship with Leah, the only other fellow artist in the village. She had a completely different artistic expression from him, though. It was fulfilling to know that more people would appreciate his way of thinking.

Elliott romanticized her already. He barely knew her, but felt sure they would grow closer, based on this exhilarating conversation.

She continued working out a melody, as Elliott eased into the tree trunk behind him again, listening intently as he jotted down a couple words her music inspired. She caught a glimpse of a few lines and giggled again:

“Did Quasimodo inspire you?”

“Haha, yes. You mentioning him made me think of being trapped up there. In the beautiful cathedral. Like you said you were at Joja. I'm a bit stuck though, don’t really know how to continue after tower.”

“Can I play around with what you wrote?” she asked with the cutest smile on her face.

Elliott felt his face blow up, he could tell he was a deep shade of red. “O-of course!!”

She nodded once, keeping the smile on her lips. She swayed, as she repeated the lines in a whispery tone while simultaneously strumming along. A few moments passed and Elliott couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. She closed her own, as she sang:

I'm in the rafters looking down

It's cold up here

Between walls of stone

I made my home

And the air hangs

Heavy with the incense

Feathers fall from pigeons

Cooing in the tower

I rarely go down there, the view's just so beautiful from here

And I can see everybody

At their worst points

At their worst points

I'm not a sadist, I enjoy just being able to be witness of the loneliness and be a higher power

In case there isn't one

In case there isn't one

I'm not a higher power, I just live in the ceiling 'cause I'm lonely on the fringes, and it gives my life some meaning

In the exile

In my exile

The grey light filters through roof slabs

And the flagstones glow

Bright from the stained glass

A hundred feet below

As I tiptoe

Creaking over prayers

Pleading with their maker

Crying with the choir

See upcoming pop shows

Get tickets for your favorite artists

I'm not immune to the sincerity below me

Makes me feel, it makes me holy, but through tears I understand

That I do not belong

No, I do not belong

Watching the figures, all the saints, but mostly sinners

Come and go and some are desperate, but the others have the sense that they do belong

And I do not belong

Some only turn towards the heavens when the end is feeling desperate,

have the overwhelming feeling

That there's nobody who's looking down

At least I'm looking down

Was this… what Shakespeare spoke about? The moment you meet your muse? The one?

Elliott had stars in his eyes as she finished her beautiful aria. When she looked at him, Elliott hurriedly clapped while she bashfully grinned.

“That was fun. You really inspired me,” she said sweetly. The writer could’ve wept at those words. Where had she been all his life?

She pushed herself up off of the ground and brushed the grass off of her legs. Had she noticed how transfixed he was? Was he making her nervous?

He tried to make his face look less in love. It wasn’t easy.

She turned to him and gazed down gently.

“I have to get back to my farm. The chickens need some love. But we should definitely play together. You down?”

Relief washed over his body. “Absolutely! I’d be honored!” Elliott felt some spit leave his mouth. He wanted to sink into the forest floor in embarrassment. She didn’t seem to notice, luckily, or perhaps she was just very polite.

“Cool! Where can I find you?”

“At the beach. The shack near the trees.”

“Awesome. I’ll stop by when I can! It was nice to meet you Elliott!”

The words left his lips in a sigh: "It was lovely meeting you, YN..."

YN winked, while she turned and walked back towards the forest entrance. Before she left through the branches, she raised her arm and waved at him.

He quickly waved back.

She disappeared behind the brush.

He felt like he had met God. Elliott fell back against the tree and started kicking his feet.

Finally, finally, finally.

Leah was right. He liked her.

A lot.

[themotherofhorses]

paloma: first meeting

— simon "ghost" riley x oc!silentdove reyes.

summary: he's not annoyed, per se, but ghost is just not really in the mood to chit-chat with the american airman scurrying around the base. at best, he tolerates them.

(or the first exchange between ghost and his montanan woman.)

warnings: none, aside from explicit language.

note: okay, so despite this being an obvious OC-insert series, i invite anyone and everyone to read it :D this is actually my first time tackling an OC-insert fanfic (as well as writing ghost) so im still trying to get the rhythm of things.

dividers by: @saradika

paloma (masterlist) | main masterlist

[2021] 

Simon Riley won’t ever admit it — never aloud, anyway — but every time he steps foot on American soil, he feels more akin to a wolf draped in sheep’s clothing. 

In his mind, he sticks out like a sore thumb. He is not a hero, really; unlike the lot teetering around the military base he is currently stationed at for the next five or so weeks, he is less flesh and blood, and more a phantom. Or something along those lines. Actually, that could explain why there is such little traffic aimed his way. But he doesn’t particularly care. His schedule lacks the room to voice any complaints. 

Right now, his main concern is doing his job, and doing it right. 

Two weeks back, Price had him fishing out his passport tucked away inside his bedside table. “Fancy a two month getaway to the States?” Great Falls, Montana, to be exact. High west, nearing the border of Canada, and surrounded by land he’s only ever seen in those silly ass spaghetti western movies. 

The view is nice, he’ll admit. Beautiful, even. Exhilarating. He now understands why they refer to Montana as “Big Sky Country.” 

Malmstrom is much smaller than he imagined, and homier too. The Air Force base is nestled within the city’s east side, offering its own museum and park. He’s quite grateful for the latter; the trails allow for his nighttime walks when the nightmares prove too shitty to sleep. 

Great Falls is pretty as well. Price would like it, maybe Garrick too. He knows the two are big on history, and almost every inch of the city is drenched with some memory belonging to the old frontier days. 

Upon arriving, the yanks provided him with his own private office, housed in the back of the 341st logistics readiness squadron. It’s nothin’ fancy, really, just a wee room furnished with a dark mahogany desk, two windows, a steel cabinet, the Montana flag to his left, and the American to his right. 

Again, he’s not one to complain. Something’s something. 

Earlier, one of the higher-up airmen, a Staff Sergeant Benson (he believes is the name), had handed him a folder jam-packed with a shit ton of mission statements — logistics, strategic planning, reports of previous global concerns, and reviews of the base’s Minuteman III intercontinental ballistic missile. All the documents are dated in a time range varying between two months ago to 0800 this morning. 

In the back of his mind, he can already hear Price chuckling.

“Have fun, Simon.”

Bloody bastard. 

So now, Ghost sits hunched over the desk, feeling a little too damn big for it. All the paperwork is strewn about messily around him, with sticky notes, a pen, and some other random shit of his. No one has yet to visit him; until that happens, he feels little need to remain organized. 

His boot taps against the floor. “—Initial efforts to clean polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs) from launch facilities at Malmstrom AFB are ongoing but seeing success…” Ghost reads under his breath. PCBs? That’s nice to hear.

“...after PCBs were detected on surfaces in launch facilities at all three of the command’s missile wings.” 

PCBs. Polychlorinated biphenyls — man-made and highly toxic, consisting of carbon, hydrogen, and chlorine atoms. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he flips onto the next page.

“We know they’re present on what appears to be otherwise pristine surfaces, due to the survey—” 

—a sudden knock interrupts his reading. 

With a curse on his tongue, Ghost sets down the report. He quicks a sneaking glance at his watch. 1342 hours. He’s due in a meeting at 1700. 

“Come in.” His voice sounds low and raspy, the two words sounding more like a growl than a greeting. He’s not annoyed, per se, but Ghost is just not really in the mood to chit-chat with the American airmen scurrying around the base. At best, he tolerates them.

(In his mind, they’re all little Graves, ready to stir up a headache.) 

The door slowly cracks open.

“Lieutenant Riley?” A female voice calls out — soft and cautious; Ghost’s chin drops against his knuckles. “Apologies for the disruption, sir, but I have some additional paperwork I need to drop off with you, at the request of my superior.” He grunts, and the airman then steps into his office, quickly shutting the door behind her before meeting his eyes. 

It is entirely unlike him, Ghost knows, but his brain almost short-circuits right then and there. Two dark brown eyes, framed by thick lashes, peering up at him. Shit. He’d always thought brown was such a pretty eye color on a woman, but hers stretched further across common compliments. 

Both of  ‘em — they held no animosity, no uneasiness or fear, nothing. 

That, itself, is quite fucking bizarre. He’s not used to that.

Ghost is .... well, Ghost. He knows the mask he is always donning on his face isn't exactly a sign of welcomeness. Just his mere presence is enough to startle the living shit out of rookies, baby recruits, wide-eyed sergeants, and the like. There is something inherently unnerving when you are unable to get a good reading of the person you're standing across from.

She’s brave, he thinks. Or merely oblivious to who he is. 

“Here you go, sir,” the airman says while placing the packet of new documents down on his desk. Her lips are shaped prettily, plump and shining with a fresh layer of gloss, and across her nose is a splatter of faint freckles. Under a different circumstance, maybe he would’ve taken the time to try and count them all.

Ghost swallows hard, incapable (for what feels like the first time in his life) of mustering up an appropriate reply. “Ah, thank you, ma’am.” 

The airman's brow lifts.

“Reyes,” she then corrects him with a kind smile, gesturing to the name badge sitting above her right chest pocket. Sure enough, in bold military lettering, reads Reyes. “My name is Senior Airman SilentDove Reyes. I am actually a cryptologic linguist analyst here on base; but sometimes I run errands for others, when not needed for a translation, of course.”

There is a slight chirp in her voice that Ghost picks up, along with the way she casually rocks back and forth on her feet. She seems awfully young, no older than 22, possibly 23, but even that's cutting it; a kid, compared to him. Maybe 5'7, with dark hair pulled back into two tight braids that fall at her belted waistline.

A stark contrast compared to him.

He's oddly curious now — about her age and first name and those long braids and why she stands before him, calm, collected, and sure — but he knows damn well this is not the time nor place for any questions. Both of them are on the clock, and it is likely she’ll need to report back to her supervisor soon. 

He offers her a curt nod. “Well, thank you again, Reyes,” he states, keeping his voice flat. 

“You are welcome, sir.” She turns to leave, but when her hand latches onto the doorknob, Reyes glances over her shoulder at him, “—oh, and Lieutenant? If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

–

The successful cleaning came after a bioenvironmental team at Malmstrom AFB …. Malmstrom AFB .. consulted with engineers and ….. and medical experts on the cleaning …. cleaning processes and– 

–and agents most likely to effectively remove the chemicals…. 

He knows his mind is wandering off, in desperate search of that pretty senior airman from fifteen minutes ago. “Bloody fucking hell,” Ghost grumbles, leaning back in his chair. His head lolls back as he blinks upward, studying the ceiling overhead. The texture is popcorn, a creamy color, with a simple fan jutting down. One light bulb, probably a recent replacement. 

Fuck. He doesn’t need this shit. Not one bit. 

Five more weeks and he’ll be gone from here. 

Ghost rechecks his watch, feeling a bit peeved at the time. 1411. He has several more hours until he can leave all this work shit behind for the evening, and maybe catch a short walk before hunkering down for the night. He doesn’t like sitting down for too long; it causes him to become restless. Agitated. Overthinking.

He doesn’t want distractions. He doesn’t need ‘em. Distractions ruin work ethic; clouding up the mind while fucking up all sense of responsibility. Price will have his ass if he – somehow – becomes compromised. And he'll never hear the end of it from Johnny. 

Settling back into the paperwork, he decides that he won’t allow himself another second thinking about all that – the American airman and her pretty brown eyes and high cheekbones and first name. 

Something tells him that’s easier said than done. 

[dailybushmedicine]

Day 5: Paloma Ajena

See Lyrics! Based on this Song

Panel 1:

You'll suffer, you'll cry (vas a sufrir, vas a llorar)

When you recall (cuando te acuerdes)

Panel 2:

Someone else's dove, (Paloma Ajena)

I thought you were good (te crei buena)

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

I mispelled the lryics, couldn't found my corrector pen D:

[fivenightsatcaros]

𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰

about me

in high school (homeschooled)

you could use she/her pronouns for me i guess, but i don't feel particularly attached to any gender, pronouns, etc. and i don't like labels

i 💖 women

my name's caro

smut writerrrr

i don't like most of the tcc as a lot of you are cringe weird racist hypocrites . interact though, i need the notes & stuff .

native american (tribe is sik sika) & black

i'll still do song of the day just as posts

i like riot grrrl, the original kawaii aesthetic movement, and grunge

music

artists and bands — weezer, nirvana, paris paloma, bratmobile, le tigre, bikini kill, excuse 17, ic3peak, babes in toyland, the jins, lush, the beach boys, blondie, the cure, blue öyster cult

i have no dni, but if i blocked you it's probably because

yr politics annoy me // yr uneducated

you think you're married to a criminal who doesn't know you

you're trying to be edgy and it's not coming off as funny

you post things i don't wanna see on the following tab

you're one of those freakish necro/zoo/pedophile people

you glorify things you know nothing about

unfunny in general

i just can't relate to you

yr eric & dylan obsessed, this also goes along with #4

yr just annoying

likes & dislikes

movies, egalitarianism, fountain pens, school buses, gore, anything male-centered, rape in movies, daisy rock guitars, books, the 2010s, the 1500s and before, 1600 and every year after it, people who say "i can see both sides" and act like they're better than those of us who have concrete beliefs, crystals, hot weather, most white people, scooters and bikes, christians, MOST freaky people, CDs, fish, the most normal people calling themselves "weird girls", vegetarians

that's all bye bye

[trolliworms]

Intro Post <3

hi i’m Kailyn :)

she/her; bi; INTJ; aquarius; neutral good; minor

this is a safe space for everyone (dni if you’re homophobic, racist, sexist, transphobic, ableist, anything like that)

my interests: reading, writing, drawing, painting, crocheting, singing, watching (tv shows, YouTube, movies, musicals), and bike riding

fandoms (prepare yourself): lockwood and co., pjo + hoo, heartstopper + solitaire, thg, atla, agggtm, barbie, ever after high, soc, lunar chronicles (+ anything Marissa Meyers), enola holmes, chaos walking, stranger things, mcu, never have i ever, scooby doo mystery inc., gravity falls, artemis fowl, fablehaven + dragonwatch, harry potter (mainly jegulus lmao), the hazel wood, caraval, coraline, the book thief, and there’s so many more but i can’t possibly list them all

music: Taylor Swift, Daisy the Great, Phoebe Bridgers, Conan Gray, Hozier, Olivia Rodrigo, Harry Styles, Cavetown, Lorde, and Paris Paloma

I also love cats, Spotify, laughing really hard, tea, elephants, stuffed animals, collecting mugs (and pens and notebooks), poetry, and puzzles

thank you so much if you read all this lmao, love you all <333

P.S. - I love tag games but if they’re super long I might not do them, so do not take it personally

[borisbubbles]

Eurovision 2023: #15

15. SPAIN Blanca Paloma - "Eaea" 17th place

Decade Ranking: 42 / 116 [Above The Busker, below Circus Mircus]

A journey has finally come to an end. Like, idk, I have all the opinions and feelings and no idea how I'll express them. So let's pen them down and figure it out as we go?

So first, let's adress the pinned post: Yep, I was right about Blanca. I am also not particularly happy about it. I didn't just suspect Spain would come top three in the final going into the show, I was actively convinced it would happen and looked forward to it. The result we got aligned only with my first instincts so maybe the problem is allowing myself to be gaslit instead of confidently believing in my divining abilities? Or maybe the problem is just the Spanish Fandom, who can tell.

Secondly, as for why we got there, well: consider this little statement i made pre-show:

That has always been the crux of my opinion on Eaea. The problem was the song. It was never bad but always unvoteable. From the moment I first heard it for Benidorm reviews, all the way to five points, you just knew it was too out there to have mass appeal. When I then saw the staging at Benidorm, it confirmed my suspicions really. In order to get televotes, you need to stage literally, not laterally. Eaea was the Jezinky of Spain.

However, I always kinda sorta liked it overall anyway?

As we saw with Mae even if you have one big "drawback" (and it wasn't that Eaea was bad, it was just too pedantic to compete for televotes, something its obtuse fans failed to understand) but do the rest right, the net result is still a net positive. Foremost, Eaea was a visual treat that I loved to look at. Not just "more than i enjoyed hearing it", no backhanded compliments like that. It's just what it excelled at: Blanca was a performer of exceptional charm and talent, and employed her skills to their optimum. There's a reason why I thought Spain would win the jury vote going into rehearsals, and that's solely because I trusted Blanca's expertise would be enough to EAT.

And honestly, she at least... moderately gobbled? Like THIS:

and THIS:

and THIS:

Is all great? I never thought Eaea was the masterpiece (can we please STOP using that term for any offbeat Eurovision song we like PLEASE) others deemed it to be, it was a quirky little fusion of flamenco traditions with modernist staging, by a great singer who nailed the difficult vocals. For better or for worse, Blanca understood the assignment that Eurovision is foremost a Live Performance Contest and made an effort to be as good as possible.

So yeah, I did vote for Blanca on the night. Twice. Even if one felt like the song was too much Piece and not enough Song, she had earned a high spot up the scoreboard for her performance and determination, so I cast a vote for her in support of that cuz you know, nature is healing. Then I fatfingered a second one by accident, making me one of ten people in Belgium who voted for Spain, and the only one to vote for them more than once. AND YOU THOUGHT, I WAS A HATER, DIDN'T YOU?

Okay, so the results. Five points SEEMS really harsh but Käärijä really was a force of fatal attraction and natural devastation that we've only truly seen once before under normal circumstances, and anyone else should have been pleased to have had any scraps left after his cultural reset. Blanca was never gonna get much of that, we already went through why.

But what about Juries? Well, they flocked to Sweden and Italy like we all suspected they would, which is a boring outcome, but both Loreen and Marco nailed their lives so w/e fine. If I wanted the juries to reward Blanca for her grit, why be angry when they did the same for Sweden and Italy?

However, to once again beat a dead equine, that *other* one in the jury top three being there, and over Blanca specifically, has to be the worst jury decision since their re-implementation. Like worse than Fade to Black qualifying into three jury twelves. Worse than Baby Eats You scoring 82 points over Blackbird. The juries exist specifically to reward layered art like Eaea and quirky outsiders like Blanca and they erred. 10th in jury, what the shit? The argument that Eaea wasn't good enough a song doesn't hold up because Ewnicorn was the worst composition in the year.

So in the end, I am back where I started: at mild like. You'd expect me to feel smug, but honestly, I mostly just feel melancholic. Eaea truly was a unique Piece and its result made me realize that, should Eurovision revert back to full-televote which is what Österdahl seems to want (🙄), it's the Eaeas that will become extinct first*.

THE RANKING

you have NO idea how much anxiety "Veronika" is giving me rn. 😬

you also have NO idea how much i'd kill for an Eaea in 2024's Benifest.

[moderarato]

🤎 moderarato’s interactive fiction OC list 🤎

(full character breakdown under the cut!)

Celeste “Este” Davies | she/her | bi

oil paintings / iced coffee / rocky beaches / pastels / arching an eyebrow / fields of long grass / pink peppercorn / home-cooked meals / balling hands into fists / heart-shaped sunglasses 

Lux Laveau | she/her | pan

lace / perfume / popping bubble-gum / fashion / cottage-core / fairy tales / magic / spritzers / heels / cakes / holidays / dinner parties / twirling hair / winking / lip gloss / fresh bouquets 

Paloma Sloane | she/her | bi

worn-in denim / noirs / night drives / coding / pine trees / alchemy / newspapers / cheap whiskey / organized mess / glasses on chains / reading under moonlight / pens in hair

Selma {No Set Surname} | she/they | bi

black and tuxedo cats / absurdism / stick & poke tattoos / junk food / heavy rain / silent nods / platform boots / thrillers / ivy / polaroids / taking the train to the end of the line / 90s goth 

Iah Moritz | they/he | pan

disco balls / nail polish / playful eye-rolls / dancing / vintage couture / sour candy / skateboards / cigarettes / early 2000s tech / leaning on surfaces / classic comics / talking with hands 

Dorothea “Dot” Eames | she/her | bi/demi

neutrals / folding hands / heirlooms / cashmere / handwritten letters / marble / minimalism / museums / matte lipstick / foxes / earl grey tea / autumn / strong eye-contact / trench coats

Arturo “Art” Belmonte | he/him | gay

historical fiction / layered clothing / piercings / hands in pockets / thrifting / old cities / mythology / over-ear headphones / sitting by windows / awkward laughs / scones & coffee  

Cewê Cizîrî | she/they | pan

night skies / scrapbooking / dandelions / pleased smiles / saffron / pushing hair back / gentle breezes / long dresses / tea sets / gardens / birdsong / people-watching / quiet confidence 

Delphine Moon | she/her | lesbian

vanilla / swans / pearls / late-night studying / chess / heavy snow / horseback riding / silently judging / white wine / perfect posture / perfume bottles / armoires with mirrors

Reina “Rei” {No Set Surname}  | she/they | bi

art galleries / baggy blazers and clothes / 80s anime / tote bags / sarcasm / aimless walks / matcha lattes / eyeliner / film scores / dining out alone / charcoal sketches

Sorn Ly  | any pronouns | pan

road trips / faded scars / banana leaves / biting nails / pottery / surfing / olives / sunsets / rolling shoulders back / hair ties on wrists / scoffing / long afternoons / humidity / walking barefoot

Frances Wiseman | she/him | demi/lesbian

cowboy boots / fruits / picking flowers / running / french new wave / messy hair / sun-kissed skin / oversized jackets / late summer / bass playing / crossing arms

[paloma-writes-about-hellfire]

intro post :)

hi, i’m paloma, or palo if you’d like! this is a writing side blog for @paloma-ascends-into-hellfire. i’ll post poetry, vents, maybe excerpts of my wips, and occasionally a journal entry. i might post music at some point. (irls, if you find this, no you didn’t)

i’m a minor and i use she/they pronouns. i have adhd and chronic migraines and i’ve struggled with self harm in the past and currently struggle with an eating disorder and body dysmorphia. this will inform some of my writing. otherwise, enjoy :)

my tags:

#paloma’s pages - general tag

#paloma’s poetry - poems

#paloma’s pen - prose

#paloma’s pacing - vents

#paloma’s personal - journal logs

#paloma’s pizzicato - music

[ramonaflow]

Thank you for tagging me @jesuisici33 @saraminia and @rainbowcoloredpalmtrees 🩷

shuffle your ON REPEAT playlist and list the first 10 songs

Underwater -Noah Reid

Living is a problem because everything dies - Biffy Clyro

Loving you - Wet Leg

Mostly to yourself - Noah Reid

All things end - Hozier

Reptilia - The Strokes

Villain - Noah Reid

Tiff Song - Noah Reid

Francesca - Hozier

Never tear us apart - Paloma Faith

your top 15 favorite tv shows can say a lot about your personality (list your top 15 shows)

Schitt's creek

Letterkenny

Shoresy

Succession

Barry

The Magicians

The Haunting of Hill House

Outer Range

Hannibal

Supernatural

19-2

Fleabag

Ghost Files

Reservation Dogs

Shameless

The Killing

Yellowjackets

Somebody somewhere

American Horror Story

Backpackers (I know! But it's just so fun)

I chose 20 because my blog my rules and it was hard enough narrowing it to 20 🤣🤣 What does that say about my personality?

I'm tagging @flowertrigger @a-noble-dragon @smblmn @beaiola @goodiecornbread @njwoman @mammameesh @wordthieve @leofdaeg-sand @heathermaru @smallumbrella369 @jettestar @stargazer56 @jamilas-pen @carolrain @demora00 @apothecarose @tyfinn just basically tagging all my mutuals. If you do it, tag me so I can read it 🩷

[goattrucksss]

Ssv Paloma likes to give klarion little gifts when he goes to his adventures,so she gives him one of her pom pom pens so they can write to each other (bc klarion dosen't care about getting a phone lol) with letters.Also catboy Klarion and disapproving Beulah

[saltwaterroleplay]

Sub-plot #3: A Poison Tree

content warning: murder, suicide, alcoholism, depression, parental neglect

Once there were five of them.

Five bright, young things: siblings forged and bonded together through the hardship of making ends meet in a town too small for their big dreams. The Williams’ eldest brother led the helm: breadwinner of the house from age sixteen, dropping out of school to help pay the bills working on a local trawler.

When their mother passed away, it was Tristan who kept the family together—Tristan who kept the family fed when their father sank into the depths of depression. But the kids were alright because they had each other, and when things got particularly tough, the community in Kerrow rallied to support them.

Until the mist came in the summer of 1988. Though most in Kerrow opted to stay indoors, Tristan continued to work through the early days—before the fog enveloped Blackmoor to a degree previously unseen in living memory. That’s when, in hindsight, the first signs began to emerge. The younger kids started seeing strange behaviours from Tristan: late night walks out by the shoreline alone, dead and hollow eyes where warmth and kindness once lived.

The murders came swiftly and brutally. First, it was Lottie O'Mullane, found strangled to death in the woods south of Tremellin. Then four days later it was Jamie McBride, whose body was mutilated in an almost ritualistic fashion upon the cliffs of Kerrow. And finally, Tristan’s younger sister, Paloma, discovered along with her brother’s body in an apparent murder-suicide in their family home.

It was only then that the killer was discovered. Yet little else was established about these murders, including the suspicious lack of signs of struggle which confounded detectives. All secrets seemingly taken to their graves.

Tristan’s lack of motive haunts Blackmoor to this day. Many theories abound in the community, with some folks wondering whether the Williamses know more than they’ve previously let on. But the case is closed, bodies long buried, and, as they say, time and tide waits for no man.

Decades have since passed, yet the shattered bedrock of the Williams family remains a sore spot for the residents of Blackmoor. This was not only a devastating tragedy that marred the lives of many, but a deep wellspring of hurt in the community committed by one of their own. And over forty years on, the shadows of not only Tristan and Paloma but the victims of their brother’s crimes continue to loom over the lives of the Williamses.

Below are skeleton canons associated with the tragedy of the Williams family. Although their ages are more or less set in stone (with room for a couple years of manoeuvre where desired and appropriate), the details and dynamics hinted in each blurb are flexible and subject to interpretation. Genders are also all open.

For the avoidance of doubt, whichever writer first claims a member of an immediate family holds the pen on their shared histories. Further extended family members (e.g. aunts and uncles, nephews and nieces) may be permitted but please confirm with staff first.

Alex Williams' family

Family of the former middle child—now eldest surviving child—of the Williamses. Alex Williams, now 53 years of age, resides in Old Town with their partner and has 3 adopted children, some of whom may still live on the island. Although the near unbearable weight of trauma and shame still hangs over the family, Alex Williams has broadly managed to cope with the stigma they experience in the community. Their children are all below the age of 34.

alex williams 53, occupation, open

first williams 52, occupation, open

first williams 30, occupation, open

first williams 26, occupation, open

Gideon Williams' family

Family of Tristan’s youngest brother, Gideon, who is currently 50 years old. He has a partner and 2 children, both below the age of 30. After the events of 1988, Gideon has struggled the most with the death of his siblings—and Tristan’s crimes—after idolising his eldest brother. He is a recovering alcoholic who has struggled with depression for almost all of his life, and has only managed to stabilise and stop drinking in his late thirties as the children became adults. This has strained the family unit to an extent, particularly due to Gideon’s emotional absence and neglect during their childhoods.

gideon williams 50, occupation, open

first williams 49, occupation, open

first williams 28, occupation, open

first williams 27, occupation, open

Helen Halliday née Williams' family

Helen Halliday (née Williams) is the youngest child of the family, now 45 years old. She has 2 children in their 20s who are half-siblings. Helen has since changed her last name through her second marriage and has gone through great efforts to separate her ‘new’ family from her childhood—though it’s easier said than done in a community as tight knit as Blackmoor’s. Although bumping into them has been inevitable on the isle, Helen no longer speaks to her siblings and shies away from any mention of Tristan, Paloma, and her family’s past.

helen halliday 45, occupation, open

first halliday 48, occupation, open

first halliday 24, occupation, open

penny halliday 17 (NPC)

The O'Mullane family

The bereaved family of Lottie O'Mullane who is survived by her younger brother, Lachlan. Lachlan married Angela McBride (see below on the McBride family) while they were still young, and to some extent still nursing the wounds of their relatives’ deaths. Their marriage has since fractured as they have grown apart, and the two officially separated five years ago, though mutual understanding and caring responsibilities of their two children are still shared between them. Although over 30 years have since passed since Lottie’s death, Lachlan continues to feel regret over his inability to somehow save his sister, and the open-ended questions that still surround the incident. This family has been claimed by Lachlan M. O’Mullane.

lachlan o'mullane 51, publican of the mermaid, anya

angela o'mullane (née mcbride) 52, occupation, open

first o'mullane 29, occupation, open

first o'mullane 27, occupation, open

The McBride family

Jamie McBride was an only child, but had two cousins from his father’s side of the family: Angela and David. Angela married Lachlan O'Mullane when they were still young and had two children before the couple separated amicably (see above on the McBride family). David is unmarried but has one child in their late 20s from a previous relationship. To this day, Angela and David have shunned the remaining Williamses and refuse to interact with any of them. David is also deeply mistrustful of Blackmoor’s authorities for their failure to prevent his older brother’s murder.

david mcbride 50, occupation, open

first mcbride 27, occupation, open

[historiavn]

MUSE ASSOCIATIONS

DR. CONSTANCE MORGAN, robber baroness.

EMOTIONS / FEELINGS:

a philanthropic sense of duty towards ensuring the well-being of individuals less fortunate than herself and her father, driven forth by her vision of an ideal world.

selfless determination in the face of imminent disaster at sea to save those who cannot save themselves, at the irreplaceable cost of her own life.

righteous indignation from witnessing any form of social injustice, of which her tolerance was nonexistent.

ceaseless pride regarding the many achievements of herself, her father, and the House of Morgan.

the deeply unsettling and eerie sensation of experiencing a recurring childhood nightmare in real, waking life.

GREETINGS / SAYINGS / QUOTES:

❝ it seems that my reputation precedes me. ❞

❝ i need you to listen to me. please do not panic. ❞

❝ you are safe with me. i promise. ❞

❝ you would do well to remember that. ❞

❝ let her speak for herself, mr. hockley. she is not a doll. ❞

COLORS:

emerald green.

navy blue.

dark crimson red.

heather gray.

SCENTS:

perfume with a scent resembling cherry blossoms.

old books from her father’s extensive library.

the distinctive aroma of wealth and money.

ATTIRE:

the elegant white nightgown donned at the time of titanic’s fateful collision with an iceberg, coupled with a brown overcoat several sizes too large that was hastily borrowed from mr. andrews.

a black suit, typical for constance’s routine appearances in her columbia university classroom.

a pale brown skirt and white blouse, representative of constance’s ordinary attire for a visit with the workers of the harland & wolff shipyard.

OBJECTS:

a golden heart-shaped locket necklace, given to her by her father for her eighteenth birthday. the locket was discovered by treasure hunters in one of the many dives for artifacts in the titanic’s oceanic gravesite.

a typewriter.

the blueprints for the rms titanic.

a fountain pen, clipped to the pocket of her white blouse.

a small circular ribbon donning the symbolic suffragist color palette of purple, white, and green, inscribed with the catchphrase “votes for women!”

VICES / BAD HABITS:

hiding the true depth of her deeply felt emotions behind a carefully crafted mask of stoicism whilst in public, particularly when interacting with her wealthy peers.

occasional indulgence in the flamboyant displays of wealth stereotypically associated with the economic elite class to which constance belongs.

clinging to grudges for excessive periods of time, and making her continuation of these grudges known at every possible opportunity.

finding enormous glee in vindicative pursuits of revenge against those whom have wronged herself or her loved ones, especially in utilizing the written word to ensure the total destruction of her target’s reputation.

frequently succumbing to an urge to engage in gossip with friends, acquaintances, and family.

BODY LANGUAGE:

perfectly manicured hands resting on her hips.

one raised eyebrow and tilted head.

fingers steepled atop her desk.

her trademark disappointed professor glare, directed towards an unfortunate misbehaving student.

AESTHETICS / IMAGERY:

complex mathematical equations covering the entirety of a green chalkboard, calculated entirely from memory.

a fully prepared chessboard, ready for a new round.

numerous stacks of ungraded essays and assignments resting atop an ornate desk.

the dimly lit white corridors of a sinking ship, rapidly filling with raging water from the sea.

a collection of seashells proudly displayed atop a windowsill, then later in the exhibits of a museum.

SONGS:

queen of kings — alessandra

labour — paris paloma

material girl — madonna

viva la vida — coldplay

mr. andrews’ vision — titanic: the musical

for each prompt, list 3-5 responses that most accurately correspond to your muse.

TAGGED BY no one. I stole it from @vyrulent.

TAGGING @unwaivering, @bccksmarts, @audaciiae, @mvndrvke, @rhaegore, @misfittcd, @novaxmuses, @officerwaltons, AND YOU.