#a balm after so they become their salvation

[swordmaid]

anyway I like the idea of shri’iia taking specific underdark materials/items with her before they left like she’d probably spent some time harvesting specific spores and other ingredients for potion making. I also think she’d splurge (steal money from the group wallet) to buy very specific poison bottles that has a very underdark/drow aesthetic. like I think blurg would have some that he’d gathered from his time there, and maybe they’d come across some from the myriad of corpses they’ve looted from. anyway shri’iia having her own little pack of underdark Stuff and she keeps it as some sort of security blanket bc she’s terribly homesick more so that she can’t go home anymore, and she spends her nights at camp brewing poisons similar to how her mother makes them (and it’s a practice she hasn’t done in so long so there’s a lot of trial and error and trying to remember it since a good century has passed) and that’s how she keeps herself busy if she’s not spending time with someone.

…and when the terrible, terrible crush comes creeping in she likes to make poisons for astarion because he uses them well and often and it makes her happy to be useful in such a way. shri’iia doesn’t register this as a crush tho lmfao I think she is so used to the type of desire where it’s all consuming and drowning, and she’s so used to dedicating her entire being to the one who holds her heart that a type of attraction where it’s more lowkey, and more subtle, and something that is creeping up on her slowly comes unnoticed - and she also does not know what to do with it when it comes, btw. the slow burn aspect of hag romance is bc yes it’s a slow burn and I’m a firm believer the romance only ever locks in after his graveyard scene in act 3 but it’s also bc these two are clowns

[amarynthian-chronicles]

Equivalent Value

Sebastian Solace x Reader

(warning: suggestive themes)

"Come on, Seb, don't be like that. Please?"

"No."

"Pretty please?"

He reached to place a clawed finger under your chin, tilting his head and grinning, narrowing his eyes.

"You are lovely when you beg. My answer remains negative."

"You are a jerk."

"A merchant's honour is very important, little light. As much as I enjoy your charming pleas, I cannot go against my own rules. You need to offer me something of equivalent or approximate value. And your sweet "pretty please" is not going to cut it."

He was taunting you, relishing the power that your despair offered. Perhaps your own pain was a soothing balm to calm his own wretchedness. It was more tolerable to listen to the shrieks of others than one's own, after all.

Still, you refused his answer. You frowned, crossing your arms over your chest.

"It is becoming insanely difficult to scavenge things and I am just trying to survive at this point. If you want to keep your favourite toy in a functional state, that will require some concessions on your end. Can you please make an exception this time? I am desperate here."

Sebastian could not deny the logic of your statement. You had never allowed yourself to be placed in such a position, and perhaps your claims of not having any research files to bargain with were truthful.

Magnificent. He could make you dance to his music.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against yours, cruel words dripping like poisonous honey from them.

"How desperate are you, my wayward light?"

Mind games with monsters were a dangerous thing and you would normally do your best to win. However, this time you did not have any advantage and you simply wished to get the needed supplies. You sighed.

"What do you want?"

"The most precious thing you could offer to a starving man in this very moment."

You did not stop him when his strong arms snaked around your waist, engulfing and capturing you. You were his prize, the most valuable type of treasure he could acquire. His ally, his accomplice, sharing his secrets.

You were well aware that he wanted you, your mind, body, and soul. Whether you wished to admit it or not, you yourself were the most powerful card you had against him.

"I hereby offer myself. It is all I have. Will this suffice?"

To your surprise, he gently reached for your hand, kissing it in a gentlemanly manner.

"The payment is more than acceptable."

You blinked in confusion at the sudden change of demeanour. Yes, the feral desire was still there, but his actions were now coupled with a certain tenderness that bordered on worship.

Sebastian took his sweet time, placing many gentle kisses along your hand, then upon each finger. His teeth grazed slowly along your wrist. Your cheeks were burning.

"Oh, my."

"My blessing, my little light, sweet salvation. For years, I had remained here, condemned, left to rot in this oceanic prison. And yet, an angel has been sent to me, tormenting me, mocking me with their warmth, their hope. I shall feast, I shall drink that nectar."

"You send such mixed signals, you know?"

"To keep you guessing, of course."

"Bastard."

His lips claimed yours, eager, showing his claim. Your softness drove him mad, his long tongue reaching to explore the warm and welcoming cavern of your mouth. You made little muffled squeaks, surprised at the sudden surge of passion. Even more so at the length of his rather dexterous tongue that was exploring with pure abandon.

Sebastian decided to savour the moment, gliding his claws along your sides, grinning as he felt you shudder under his touch. Such softness. He had been deprived of the pleasures of simple touch and affection for so long.

Deciding that he should grant you the mercy of allowing you to breathe once more, he released you from the kiss. He nuzzled the soft silken skin under your neck, allowing your warmth to comfort him. Your pulse, your beating heart, a symphony only for him to enjoy.

Sebastian had to gather some control over himself, resisting the need to claim you in that very moment. No, he wished to slowly unwrap his present and enjoy each part of the payment that had been offered. Still, his three hands could not help themselves, fondling and scratching, teasing you all over. You were still gasping for breath, holding onto him.

"Seb..."

"I am busy, darling."

"Don't tear the fabric, I don't have a whole closet of clothing, you know."

"Worry not, I shan't disrobe you just yet. Your payment will be in several installments. This is merely the first one. As for the garments, I can procure you whatever you wish."

"Good thing you didn't print a receipt, while you are at it."

Strong hands kept massaging and squeezing your sides and hips, earning your sweet hums and moans as a reward. You relaxed in his hold, leaning your head on his chest, closing your eyes.

"A little to the right, upwards. My back has been killing me for days, this is wonderful. You should be a masseuse, Seb. Three arms work magic."

He laughed gently at your nonsense, resting his chin on your soft head.

"Of course, my dear light."

[l4mplight]

Miquella and Trina; A Tragedy

Hey Tumblr. I have a lot of thoughts about Shadow of the Erdtree, and these ones... let's just say I don't think they'd do well on Reddit. It's not often that I feel particularly impacted by a particular fictional character. Usually I connect more with narrative arcs and themes, which is why I think I'm so drawn to the ephemeral, vibes based storytelling of Fromsoft's games. Playing through SOTE, though, I found Miquella (and St Trina) to be extremely emotionally compelling and relatable, and I wasn't sure exactly why. I think I've put my finger on it now though. First of all, know that I am writing from the perspective that Miquella is a sympathetic character. I know that it's not uncommon to read him as a manipulative Machiavellian villain, but I think that's both a misreading of the text as well as just plain boring. Like, he's not a Griffith clone you guys, give From some credit. Anyway, here we go.

"You have no understanding. Of Miquella the Kind. Of St. Trina's Love.

Content Warning: I'll be discussing themes of depression, and the implication of suicidal ideation.

So, a classic Fromsoftware theme is despair, and the ways we cope with a world full of it. It shows up twice in Shadow of the Erdtree; with Midra and the Frenzied Flame, where despair leads to a selfish nihilism that asks us to burn everything down, and with Thiollier and St Trina, who offer sleep as a comfort to the weary. Running a small errand for Thiollier has him say the following.

"If you find yourself… weary of the weight of this life, then just give me the word. Sleep is a balm, and eternal sleep… is an elixir."

Drinking the elixir he offers will, of course, result in an instant death. This is our first encounter with the idea of "Eternal Sleep," a more potent form of the sleep status effect that only appears here in the Shadowlands, after St Trina has been abandoned. The Velvet Sword of St. Trina tells us as much: "Silver sword of St. Trina, now stained the color of velvet. Inflicts eternal sleep. When St. Trina was abandoned, the faint, light-purple mists coalesced into an intoxicating deep-purple cloud." In order to ascend to godhood, Miquella abandons first his physical body, and then the more abstract aspects of himself. As we begin to descend down the fissure where we'll find Trina, a cross marks the spot as the place where Miquella abandoned his love. This connects Trina, "the discarded half" as Thiollier puts it, with Miquella's love. Leda confirms this in her own dialogue:

"St. Trina's love for Kind Miquella is boundless. She is, after all, his other half. Or perhaps her feelings go beyond even that. Even if she was left behind, I doubt her heart would waver."

Keep that in mind, it'll be relevant later.

Near the cross, a spirit offers up some of the most heartbreaking dialogue I've come across so far. The spirit gives us a bigger picture of Miquella's goals:

"Kindly Miquella... I see you've thrown away... something you should not have. Under any circumstances. How will you salvation offer... to those who cannot be saved? When you could not even save your other self?"

I teared up at this. The emotional impacted was aided by the fact that I ran into the spirit right after telling Moore to put his past behind him, leading him to rededicate himself to Miquella. He says:

"Hm. Maybe that’s Kindly Miquella’s love. Love for all the unloved. Love, to banish the pain."

Note here that Moore suggest Miquella's love will "banish the pain." This is also essentially what Trina's sleep does. It's a comfort to those in need. Anyway, between these two instances, we end up with a pretty good picture of the sort of god Miquella wants to become. He was already sympathetic to the outcasts of The Lands Between in the basegame, where he built Elphael and the Haligtree as a haven for those rejected by the Golden Order, such as the Albinaurics and Misbegotten we find there. In the Shadowlands, he has gone a step further. Hornsent tells us that he has committed himself, in essence, to righting Marika's wrongs.

"Miquella has said as much himself – he wishes now to throw it all away. He says the act – though undoubtedly painful – will sear clean the Erdtree’s wanton sin. The truth of his claim can be found at each cross. 'Tis evidence enough to earn my belief."

Of all of Marika's children, Miquella is the only one to see the serious flaws in her empire. Ymir points this out to us as well.

"No matter our efforts, if the roots are rotten, then we have little recourse. Ever-Young Miquella saw things for what they were. He knew his bloodline was tainted, his roots mired in madness. A tragedy if there ever was one. That he would feel compelled to renounce everything when the blame lay squarely with the mother."

My thinking here is aligned with Mother Ymir. You really have to feel for Miquella; he has essentially taken on, alone, the responsibility of making up for centuries of Golden Order imperialism. That's a massive burden to bear, especially for Miquella, cursed with eternal childhood.

(It's easy to miss, but Miquella actually ages up significantly when we see him in god-form. Until he steps back through the Divine Gate, he would have looked and sounded like he does in the introductory art and in ending memory scene. Compare those with how he appears in the boss fight, and it's clear godhood at least helped him reach puberty lol) So we've established that Miquella is the child of Imperial Rome on Steroids, is cursed with eternal childhood, and is an empathetic prodigy with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Surely his mental state is perfectly healthy, right? Right??

Final warning, this is where things get quite sad. Here is where I will try to tie Miquella's arc together with Thiollier and St Trina, and the comforting oblivion and relief from despair that sleep represents for them.

As we search for St Trina, we descend down into the Stone Coffin Fissure. This is a place of death, with massive coffins built into the fissure walls, and Gravebirds, Bloodfiends and Putrescent enemies everywhere. St Trina is found at the deepest possible pit of this fissure, in a swamp of putrescence that has since blossomed into a garden of deep velvet lilies because of her influence. Trina offers us nectar of "eternal sleep," as Thiollier did previously, and as established then, "eternal sleep" is essentially nothing more than a peaceful death. Trina seems to fit in quite well in this place of ancient dead things, with some of the ancient remains even being compelled to fight for her in exchange for eternal rest, becoming the Putrescent Knight.

(Side note for levity because we're about to get sad again; I love this guy. It's a knight made out of the skeleton of a horse, riding on that same horse's decaying flesh goop body. Like, ugh. Beautiful. Plus, it may even have taken that shape because of Trina sharing Miquella's memories of Radahn, who was never far from his horse Leonard...)

We meet St Trina in her garden, and when we imbibe her nectar, we eventually begin to hear her voice in our death-dreams. She seems to pity him. Mourn for him, almost.

"Make Miquella stop... Don't turn the poor thing into a god..."

Trina appears to be in a bad state after her fall. She can only manage to get a few words across to us at once. Just as Leda predicted, her heart hasn't wavered. She is only concerned with Miquella's well-being.

"Godhood would be Miquella's prison. A caged divinity... is beyond saving."

Trina's most pressing concern is that godhood will be a prison for Miquella. Now, this could in theory be because gods are subject to manipulation from the Fingers and the Greater Will or a similar reason, but given that she calls him a "poor thing," I think there is likely a more emotional reason behind Trina's plea. I think that Trina is speaking as the embodiment of Miquella's love, but especially his ability to love and care for himself...

"You must kill Miquella... Grant him forgiveness."

...and she asks us to kill him.

In excising Trina from his being, I think Miquella also expelled the part of himself that was able to recognize how miserable divinity would be for him, and how miserable he was. The part of him that was tired of carrying the responsibilities that his compassion demanded of him. The part of him that was exhausted, despairing and desperate from having failed to cure Malenia, failed to save Godwyn, failed to perfect the Haligtree. St Trina is the part of Miquella that wanted to be stopped, to rest, to sleep, to die. In abandoning her as he does, Miquella is essentially repressing those thoughts and feelings, replacing them with more "selfless" ones; self-sacrifice, suffering on behalf of others, his martyrdom and apotheosis. I don't want to forget about "grant him forgiveness" either. She might mean forgiveness for failing to become a god, for not being good enough to succeed Marika and right her wrings. Maybe forgiveness for failing Malenia and Godwyn, or for leaving the Haligtree behind. Maybe even for abandoning her. But on the road to godhood, Miquella can't afford to indulge in this sort of self-pity. A child craves forgiveness and approval, a god must cast these things out.

"I'm feeling rather lost. Haunted by memories. Of St. Trina. Her visage. Her scent. The lure of velvety sleep. Would Kindly Miquella chasten me? For falling for St. Trina, while knowing that she was the discarded half? The problem is… I simply cannot help it. I would sacrifice everything, just to gaze upon her, one last time."

I want to mention Thiollier one more time here too. His primary visual motif is the long white braids that he wears on his clothes, reminiscent of Miquella and Trina's own signature braids (remember, she looked like an older feminine Miquella before her fall and injury). Thiollier is obsessed with Trina, pursuing her to hear her voice and fade into the comfort of her velvet sleep, though this doesn't kill him like it does us. I don't think Thiollier is connected to Miquella in any textual way, but I think he does serve as a reflection of the sorts of thoughts Miquella may have been surpressing. The self-pity, the need for approval and love, the feelings of weakness and uselessness. These are the things that lead Thiollier to pursue endless slumber.

Thiollier doesn't give in to that despair, however. Though he initially takes St. Trina's words... poorly, he eventually realizes what must be done, and dedicates himself to his new purpose: carrying out her final wish.

"I am here to serve St. Trina evermore. I am deeply sorry. For doubting you. I am here only to grant St. Trina's singular wish. I will stop Miquella the kind. He will never become a god."

This post is already quite long, but I also want to mention the obvious gender stuff going on here. There are a number of moments that make it seem as though St. Trina might actually be more than just "half" of Miquella. Firstly, as she is shown falling in the story trailer, Leda is describing how Miquella abandoned his fate, as if Trina had a vital role to play in Miquella's future. It also seems as though Trina isn't cursed in the same way that Miquella is; her voice and size indicate that she is at least more substantial than his "infant form," and she is depicted in "adult form, somewhat unnervingly" on the Torch of St. Trina. Furthermore, her "adult form" has a third eye in the middle of her forehead. The third eye is a symbol of enlightenment in both Hinduism and Buddhism; it seems that Trina has achieved some level of wholeness in this depiction. Meanwhile, when Miquella achieves godhood, his eyes remain permanently shut. He also appears to have only one physical arm. He holds Radahn with two incorporeal arms while casting with his real right arm, but his left arm appears to fade away to nothing before the elbow, as if unfinished. Miquella's blindness and asymmetry here, I think, reflect how unbalanced and incomplete his divinity is without Trina.

One more hint towards St Trina being a part of Miquella's future lies way back at the Haligtree. In Malenia's bossroom, just above where Miquella's cocoon was once embedded into the tree, the branches and roots appear to form a silhouette. This could be Miquella, Trina, or both, but I do see a certain resemblance to Trina's depiction on the torch in the way the "hair" covers the eyes. Given that Miquella's body appears to have grown a decent amount inside of the cocoon when we see in at Mohg's palace, it's possible that the cocoon situation was his original attempt to cure himself of his own curse, or perhaps become a part of the Haligtree itself. In the Shaman Village, Marika's home, there is a similar scene. A woman's body that resembles Marika seemingly mummified within the hollow of a tree. I honestly have no idea what to make of that just yet, but I thought it worth a mention.

So, with all that in mind, abandoning Trina seems to be even more significant. Not only has Miquella divested himself of his love and his fate, but maybe even his future, too. Being eternally nascent, he is always in a state of potential, after all. Am I suggesting that Miquella is a transfeminine character? That he was meant to grow up to become a goddess in the aspect of St. Trina, or maybe even more like Marika than he already is? Well, maybe. If you find it compelling, then absolutely. Fromsoftware's storytelling is always ambiguous, and is always design to leave us some room to read and interpret, to really play in the space we are given. Personally, I do find it compelling in a horribly tragic sort of way, fitting for the setting. It's also entirely possible that I have rather self-indulgently projected some of my own angst onto these character. I likely have, to be perfectly honest. It's rare that I really connect with a set of characters or a story like I have with this lot, and I hope that maybe some of you reading this will feel similarly. If you have read this far, thanks <3

[kaurwreck]

hi! i really want to tell you that i love love love your blog. i feel so much joy when i see you've made a long post with your thoughts. i admire the way you engage with things you enjoy! you've genuinely inspired me to get back into reading. i've been struggling with migraines and after some time i started associating reading with suffering. i stumbled upon your blog because of bsd, and i got so fascinated with the way you communicate with the source material that i had a childlike realization: i want to have that too! and i picked up akutagawa, and i'm enjoying myself so much. i'm never not thinking about the post where you said that the trick to being clever is to stop obsessing over being right. life-changing, really. sending you so so so much love! p.s. as a russian-speaker it's a delight reading your thoughts on dostoevsky, especially seeing you use diminutives, for some reason. in russian slang we sometimes say, "ты так чувствуешь!" ("you are really feeling!") meaning "you really get it on an emotional level!" and that's what i think every time i read your thoughts on dostoevsky.

I hesitated to answer this ask because I wanted to covet it and hoard it and keep it tucked away where I could revisit it to my greedy heart's content without anyone noticing, but I'd rather you know that this ask was so delightful to receive and absolutely melted me in the best way, so I'm publishing it even though that means submitting to the mortifying ordeal of creating a tag so that I can more easily return to your kind words, and perhaps other, similar asks and posts that are emotional balms.

Also, I am so sorry, I'm sleep-deprived and I was so excited and charmed and delighted by your ask that I lost my mind and wrote you a veritable novel in response. Thus, I've added a readmore and headings (because WOW, I went on tangents, sorry!)

Returning to Reading

I'm so sorry you have migraines; I don't get them often, but I do occasionally get them, and it's some of the worst, least tolerable pain I've ever experienced. So, whatever it's worth, you have my sympathy and admiration, especially since returning to reading when you experience frequent migraines implicates some common triggers. (Never mind how annoying I know it is when you're in too much pain to read as a distraction either.) But I'm delighted you're reframing your relationship with reading separate from suffering, and that you're enjoying the process! I'm also returning to reading, and while I don't have the same challenges, I am also engaging in a process of relearning and recontextualizing reading for myself, so I'm always here to chat about it.

I'm especially thrilled that you picked up Akutagawa; Akutagawa is the author who also coaxed me back into reading literature (as opposed to comics or webnovels). He might still be my favorite even now that I've read several, several other modern Japanese authors.

Akutagawa Adoration Hours

[I apologize; I hyperfocused and wrote an entire multi-paragraph essay on how much I love Akutagawa below... I promise I come back to your ask!]

Akutagawa's literary voice is just so vivid, sharp, and intentional. He compels you to cling to the weight of each word with rich, clever language that cuts to the hearts of matters frankly, bluntly, and sometimes scathingly. But even when his authorial voice is ostensibly irreverent or lacquered with detachment, he cradles his most foolish characters, bundling them with naked affection for their sincerity, vulnerability, and childish conviction. They embody his unadulterated faith, and he reserves for them in the implication the same salvation he's convinced he's too sullied by shame, terror, and self-consciousness to deserve. Akutagawa does not squander the gravity of your attention, and even in brief vignettes in which humans become lice or have had their personhood severed from them by the untenable yet escalating demands of their responsibilities to others, there's humanity in his horror and absurdity, and closure in his ambiguity. I rarely feel as if there's certainty in Akutagawa's narratives, but neither do I feel as if nothing that occurred mattered.

Even when nothing has objectively changed for the characters, Akutagawa sources meaning from the subjective perceptions of the characters, the impact of which is rarely diminished by the objective or observable. Thus, the bleakness, horror, and absurdity of the characters' circumstances are sometimes interminable, but they shelter Akutagawa's fondness and latent certainty that existential meaning is inherent to humanity because of, rather than despite, our fragility, foolishness, and callous disregard for measurable truth.

His contemporaries criticized him for the detachment and perceived stagnancy lent by his polish and technical brilliance, but I've never read any of his stories and not felt an earnestness that persists entirely apart from the explicit narrative, as if someone is reading over my shoulder and murmuring "isn't she brave?" whenever a character is so simple in their sincerity that they become vulnerable to humiliation and abuse. And that's not detachment; that's Akutagawa relentlessly writing hope, love, and compassion into the creases of his own grotesque fear, and in doing so, filling spaces we perceive as empty in ourselves with the faith and devotion he was so certain he lacked.

You Said Childlike In Passing But Chapter 55 of the Tao Te Ching Rewired My Brain and I Was Lost In the Akutagawa Sauce So...

And it's childlike how, even when characters like O-Gin are debased and humiliated, Akutagawa yearns for their salvation enough to smudge the ink at the edges of his precisely rendered language so the silly, ignorant little fools might transcend the boundaries of the narrative that otherwise ruthlessly scorned and punished them for their guilelessness. His need for innocence is itself indicative of the keen sense of violation that prompts a toddler to indignation when his jejune reliance on fairness is first exploited and then provided as cause for exploitation.

Akutagawa was wise enough to know childlike conclusions are the most profound and self-actualizing insights we can have, but too certain of the inevitability of his suffering and too overly prescribed barbiturates to nurture and cherish his own salvific childishness. So, your realization was brilliant for its childlike wisdom, and I think it's both wonderful and meaningful that you then nurtured that wisdom by pursuing the relationship you wanted with the source material.

Being Right vs. Playful Engagement

I'm also so glad that the post about being clever =/= obsessing over being right was sticky and impactful! It's, quite frankly, immensely less fun and more pressure if you're hinging your enjoyment on whether you're right when engaging with media where "right" is subjective and layered, and where you're engaging with a foreign cultural context. I get the impression that centering your engagement on making and assessing the accuracy of predictions also lends itself to biases, defensiveness, disappointment, misplaced resentment based on unmet expectations, and incuriosity; at least more so than engaging with the story playfully and sincerely.

I'm also just extremely biased towards bsd and Asagiri's approach to storytelling; I think he's engaging in a challenging and layered approach to storytelling that is wholly unique to him. (At least, based on my own experiences with referential multimedia titles.) I'm so charmed by how Asagiri throws himself into creative challenges and engages in meaningful and remarkably substantive conversations with the source materials, his own portfolio of interlocking narratives, and his audience. I would kill to chat with him about his processes.

Everyone I'd Encountered Who Seemed Parasocially Obsessed With Dostoevsky Was Right

Before I get into this next babble tangent, I want you to know that your kind words and perspective as a Russian-speaker regarding my Dostoevsky thoughts mean SO much to me; I'm very proud if I'm able to do an ounce of justice to the text in my ramblings, and I'm so excited to know the appropriate phrase for what I'm experiencing right now because I am REALLY feeling.

I was admittedly a little nervous about reading his works with only minimal background, and I went into Crime and Punishment without first consulting any published critiques and analyses (which I sometimes do for foreign classics to bridge gaps in context). But, I was eager to start the story, so I decided to just get into it with the understanding I might need to pause for further research if I felt I was missing too much context to engage with the text meaningfully. But, wow, I was immediately consumed. I struggled to put it down for most of it, and I've been staying up too late and sneakily reading at work; things I haven't done since I was in middle school.

While I know I'm missing context, even with the attentive footnotes (and I absolutely will read so many academic papers on it once I finish these last fifty pages), I was pleasantly surprised by how not only engaging his writing and this translation are but also by how familiar with and connected I feel to the characters and circumstances and emotions and dynamics. He has rendered the human experience and specific flavors of People into such compassionate, teasing, sincere, frank, and sobering characters who I feel like I've had entire conversations with.

I love classic lit, but Dostoevsky is sincerely rekindling a joy I haven't felt in years while reading. Also, his frankness and compassion regarding alcoholism and parentified children and trauma and ennui and guilt and the contradictions we grapple with within ourselves and with who we are to different people are giving me a framework for reflecting on swaths of my trauma and childhood that I've struggled to articulate my thoughts and emotions around for years.

I'm so energized and excited about reading his other works, but, wow, I'm going to miss these characters so much.

Accounting For My Crimes Against the Russian Language

I have very little background in Russian, but I'm passingly familiar because in high school (i) I was obsessed with Russian history, particularly related to the USSR and swaths of imperial Russia (I actually taught the lesson on Ivan IV Vasilyevich in my Western Civ class because my teacher was pregnant and exhausted and I knew the material better than she did); and (ii) I studied Russian with a private tutor in my senior year of high school (very lightly; once a week, only for a year, I met with her and two French language teachers from my school who were also interested in Russian for hour-long lessons and to receive homework assignments).

So, while my experience with the language is shallow at best, I've always loved Russian diminutives. I'm obsessed with the sheer amount of information relayed in someone's name. It's incredible. Of the languages I'm familiar with, none have a comparably satisfying gradient range of (i) affection and (ii) disrespect.

That said, I use diminutives for characters I'm particularly fond of, to show affection, and to teasingly disrespect them since I think it's quite overfamiliar for me to take such liberties.

Also, while I try to check after myself to ensure I'm using them correctly, I have only a surface-level understanding of what I'm doing, and some language forum threads are more helpful than others, so I'm very, very sorry if I use any incorrectly, and I encourage you (and any other Russian speakers and learners) to yell at me if you notice I'm misusing someone's name.

So far, my approach has been to check general searches, forums, and Reddit when I've encountered diminutives in Crime and Punishment, and I'll continue to look up every single name variation in the Dostoevsky novels I'm reading, no matter how long it may take me to realize what I've been scouring for isn't a diminutive at all but instead probably (emphasis on "probably," because no one providing English explanations seemed wholly certain) the same name but spoken in the form native to a separate Slavic language than the languages anyone else in the conversation was using, not that it really seemed to matter, since the same characters within the same conversation each used multiple forms of the same, with only one remark on what was most likely the correct form, which everyone ignored/disregarded, including the remarking character. So if you have context on THAT dynamic, I would love to hear about the etiquette and conventions around language forms among the many different languages and dialects in Eastern Europe.

For reference, the diminutives I've been using re: Crime and Punishment and bsd, with more context:

Raskolnikov is "Rodya" unless he's naughty, in which case I call him "Rodka." Unless he's REALLY naughty, then he's Raskolnikov.

Avdotya is Dunya always; I do feel egregious because she commands grace and gravitas, and I respect her SO much. But I love her dearly and am very warm towards her and everything she does, so I call her Dunya as if she were my sister because if she were, I would treat her better than Rodka right now.

Razumikhin is Dima which may be wildly incorrect, both in form and historical context; the only reason I haven't confirmed it yet is because I had an OC named Dmitri in high school that I was very fond of and referred to affectionately as Dima, and I'm similarly fond of Razumikhin, so I've delayed confirming and correcting myself here, although that's very Rodka-naughty of me, I know.

Fedya is always bsd!Fyodor, and only when he has really wide eyes and is being adorable bunny Fedya. He is Fyodor when he is being nasty or squinting. I call the author by either his last or full name, although I'm sure I've carelessly called him Fyodor before too. I try to maintain some consistency in distinguishing who I'm referencing between the characters and their namesakes.

Tl;dr: I love Russian diminutives. The only other time I've come close to feeling the same amount of immense delight over names-as-love-and-violence is when my work mentor, who is Chinese, was providing me with her preferred titles (laoban ["old boss," old meaning "venerable" rather than indicating age], jiejie ["big sister"]), and my other coworker chimed in to say, "Wouldn't you be da-jiejie ["first/eldest big sister"], since you're the oldest?" If looks could kill.

[trulybetty]

Bad Day.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader (no use of Y/N) Word Count: 1,473 Warnings: Bad days at work & a bottle of wine I wish I currently had Summary: You arrive home after a terrible day at work and Marcus wants to help turn it around.

A/N: Apparently I write fluff now? Think it's to counter all the angst I've been writing this week. As always, feedback and thoughts are always welcomed!

Bad Day.

The day had stretched on into an eternity of answering emails, taking calls, and handling one crisis after another. By the time you made it home, fatigue hung heavy on your shoulders, and frustration simmered just beneath your skin.

As soon as the front door clicked shut behind you, your purse slipped from your grip and collided against the ivory-painted wall with an echoing slap that reverberated through your home. Its intended destination had been the nearby bench, but your aim was off, and your temper led you astray. The sounds of your day ricocheted around the empty hallway, bouncing back at you in a symphony of stress.

In the echo of the leather crashing against the paint, the dull thud of your heels being kicked off sounded almost gentle. They skittered across the floor, coming to rest askew and forgotten. Their discarded state served as a silent testament to the bitter, angry, and eager-for-relief state of mind that had brought you here.

With determination guiding your steps, you stalked down the narrow hallway, your gaze fixed on the salvation you knew awaited you in the kitchen. Marcus, your ever-steady boyfriend, sat perched on one of the stools surrounding the island. His focus was on the newspaper spread out in front of him, his hand absently circling over an article as he read. As you walked past him, his eyes lifted from the print, following you with a quiet concern you didn't acknowledge. The world outside had captured your attention, and your boyfriend was left waiting for the weather to clear.

Normally, his quiet presence was a soothing balm to your weary soul, but tonight you barely noticed him.

Your hand gripped the handle of the fridge, pulling it open with a fervour that made the bottles inside clink against each other. Nestled in the back, your emergency stash—a bottle of wine—waited for days like this. The sight of it, familiar and comforting, eased your tension a fraction, and you reached for it without hesitation.

The glass appeared in your hand next, crystal clear and waiting to be filled. The top of the wine bottle unscrewed with a satisfying crack, releasing a bouquet of scents into the air. You began to pour, rosé liquid glugging into the glass. It filled and filled and filled, until it perched on the edge of disaster—a metaphor for your own state of mind.

As you brought the glass to your lips, you sensed Marcus turning his attention toward you. His brown eyes, usually so comforting, felt intrusive. A warning glare cut him off before he could open his mouth, the words dying on his lips as he recognized the storm in your gaze. You took a long, drawn-out sip, the bitterness of the wine mirroring your own mood.

"Bad day?" Marcus finally ventured, his voice a soft query against the thick silence hanging in the room.

“The worst,” you responded curtly, your voice clipped. Each syllable was a pebble skittering across the surface of your mounting frustration.

"Want to talk about it?" he offered, his tone full of genuine concern. Marcus was nothing if not patient, always there to lend an ear when needed.

"Not particularly," you responded, the words slipping out as you took another gulp of wine. The glass was becoming lighter, the wine within dwindling, but the weight of the day still lingered.

He sighed, folding the paper he'd been reading and setting it aside to make room for his full attention, leaning against the cool marble counter. "Can I do anything?" he offered, the sincerity in his voice resounding in the quiet room.

You eyed him over the rim of your glass, the crystal distorting his features. “I’m not entirely sure,” you confessed, the honest words hanging in the air, a testament to the day.

His lips twitched into a slight smile, his eyes meeting yours, "Hm, can I at least give it a shot?" His offer hung in the air between you.

“If you insist,” you replied, your tone softening despite yourself. The rage was ebbing now, replaced by an exhausting heaviness.

A ripple of amusement flashed across Marcus's face at your grudging acquiescence, a spark in the gloom of the evening. He pushed off from the counter, and the stool beneath him swayed with the sudden absence of weight. The soft pad of his shoes on the kitchen tiles was barely audible over the steady hum of the refrigerator. But it was enough for you to look up, your eyes locking onto his tall frame as he made his way toward you.

He was still dressed in his work attire—a tailored suit that hugged his form just right, the dark fabric accentuating the broadness of his shoulders and the lean length of his torso. His tie, a vibrant splash of colour against the crisp white of his shirt, was already slightly loosened. You'd always admired the professional veneer he wore like a second skin. It was a sight that never failed to stir something within you. But you knew the man underneath, the one who could read you like an open book and was unfazed by the fiery melee of emotions that you were after a bad day.

As he approached, Marcus reached up to loosen his tie further, the fabric sliding easily through his fingers. He undid the top button of his shirt, revealing a glimpse of the tanned skin beneath. His fingers worked deftly, a calculated move he knew would rattle your composure. It was a small action, yet so intimate, so inherently Marcus, that it drew a sigh from your lips. This was the man you knew, the one who would willingly put aside his own comfort to ensure yours.

His hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. It was a tender gesture, a whisper of comfort that helped ground you in the moment. You leaned into his touch, letting your eyes flutter shut. Your senses heightened—the scent of his cologne, the sounds of the house settling around you, the feel of his warm hand against your skin. It was grounding, a silent reassurance that you were here, with him, safe from the trials of the day.

His lips met yours in a soft, lingering kiss. It wasn't demanding or passionate, but rather a patient exploration, an statement of the bond between you two. His other hand found its way to the small of your back, holding you close as he deepened the kiss. The taste of him, warm and familiar, washed over your tongue, erasing the bitter aftertaste of the wine.

You responded, letting your glass of wine rest on the counter as your free hand tangled in his hair. Your fingers traced the nape of his neck, playing with the loose hairs there, eliciting a low hum from Marcus. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body seeping through the thin material of your blouse.

He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His brown eyes, normally so playful, were now clouded with tender seriousness.

He offered a soft smile, his hand caressing your cheek, the pad of his thumb tracing the outline of your lips. His gaze was intense, yet held a softness that had you melting under his touch.

"Have I been successful in making you forget about the terrible day you've had?" His words held a hint of amusement, his eyes twinkling with muted satisfaction.

You looked up at him, his eyes bright with curiosity. "You did," you admitted, the tension having melted away under the heat of his touch.

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. "Good," he murmured, pressing a light kiss on your forehead. "Because we have the whole weekend ahead of us, and I want you to enjoy every moment."

Your heart fluttered at his words, their promise of a peaceful respite adding to the comfort that he'd already provided. "Any plans?" you asked, looking up at him.

His smile widened. "None in particular," he admitted, his eyes lighting up with a playful spark. "Except for our standing date at Sweet Jane’s Sunday morning."

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, if that was even possible. The warmth of his body seeped into you, grounding you, reassuring you.

As you rested your head against his chest once more, a sigh of contentment left your lips. The turmoil of the day seemed a distant memory now, replaced by the comforting presence of the man you loved. His ability to whisk you away from your worries, to make you forget the stress of the day, was one of the many things you cherished about him.

"I like the sound of that," you murmured, a faint smile on your lips.

[dreamingsnowflake2013]

Because the heart asks pleasure first...

Jang Uk hasn't allowed himself to touch anyone intimately since he lost Yeong nor did he wanted to. After a touch-starved life, he finally seeks her touch and physical pleasure from her. It makes so much sense because he's only ever desired her.

He couldn't feel pleasure with anyone else. It has only ever been her for him and so he's been pining and longing for her each night and day, worshipping her memory and keeping her alive through it so naturally no other woman could have ever compared to her.

It's the first time in years, Jang Uk not only suffers someone else's affectionate touch for longer than 3 seconds but actually leans into it. It's the first time he doesn't push Yeong away but keeps holding onto her as if she were his anchor.

And so he finally shatter around her as 3 year-worth of bottled up emotions overcome him. He finally allows himself to cry in front of Yeong as she is wiping away his tears she is both the source of his torment and comfort and salvation.

After receiving the ice stone, Jang Uk has always been cold. He barely allows anyone, even Yul,to touch him much less embrace him so when Yeong holds him in her arms throughout the night, it's the first time in 3 years when he feels truly warm.

She has truly been Jang Uk's antidote, curing the dark icy poison that has been slowly killing him for the past 3 years. She is the balm to his tormented soul and he seeks her out desperately. She is his goddess offering him salvation.

Jang Uk is so much stronger than Yeong but she gives him so much comfort and he becomes overcome but the sheer longing for her that he can't help himself but to reach out and kiss her, desperate to take all the love and comfort she offers him

The darkness combined with the moonlight give to the moment such an intimate feelings. Jang Uk and Yeong finally steal something for themselves, taking slowly back everything that was so cruelly ripped away from them three years ago. Also, the darkness allows him to finally confess his deepest fear as it allows certain privacy and protecting which the light of the day doesn’t. It’s symbolic that it’s thanks to the shadows of the night he gains the strength to bring his fears to light and the freedom to give into longing.

[zorkaya-moved]

navigation: honkai star rail.

[BANNER IMAGE]

«My end will become your beginning just as Origin is the end to old and the beginning of new. Listen to my words, this will become my last chapter.»

The battle on Earth ends with the success of the trio of young women who fought for what's beautiful in the world. The last obstacle they saw had fallen and the Cocoon of Finality was claimed by the descendant of the Kaslana lineage. But what the fall of Kevin - the man who walked the path of a 'hero' - meant to those who were left behind? When the strongest human has ceased his existence, the end was taken away from one who sought it out for more than fifty thousand years. 

Tears fall, loss of end and the finality brings a Herrscher of Ice to her knees. There's no end fo rher in sight, even with the Honkai energy being slowly controlled by the Kiana Kaslana. However, the battle awakened something... no, 'someone.' A woman who's been in deep slumber even since her ascension into the godhood. The daughter of the Imaginary Tree, the Aeon of Origin - Elysia. A girl as beautiful as flower petals, a woman who loved humanity more than anything, a friend who's been long lost after she sacrificed her human life to free Herrschers of the current era after witnessing endless torment. 

And once again, eyes of crystalized energy would find the despairing stagnation and her warm hands would be extended to soothe the pain of loss far beyond anyone's understanding. Cradled in the familiar embrace, the pain subsides if only for a moment but Herrscher of Ice has never expected to find herself in the Land of Origin with a familiar friend now standing before her. Is it a dream or has Cocoon of Finality decided to taunt her one last time? But no, a touch so familiar and so gentle has brought the grave understanding imemdiately. 

A gentle smile, a warm embrace, and an apology. Tears shed. A talk exchanged. And finally, a favor is asked. 

The daughter of the Imaginary Tree extends her hand to the bearer of stagnation, asking her for one last task to be done. To follow the Finality's footsteps to ensure the salvation of the Universe. One last task in exchange of one last wish. Origin knows not the end, but Finality - Terminus - does. The Origin knows of the beginnings, wistands against Destruction, witnesses the birth of new and end of old. 

A crystal flower is bestowed. The Herrscher core within Zarina's chest responds to it, absorbing the crystal inside and filling in the cracks left from Finality's taming by the Kaslana's lineage. Clarity becomes more eminent, the energy of origin feels like a soothing balm on her soul. Breathing becomes lighter, but the cracks will still be seen. 

—Before you, I'll kneel one last time, daughter of life. If followers of Terminus will witness my end, I'll ensure your wish is fulfilled. From now on, I'll be your Apostle of Origin.

HEADCANONS. (TBA)

current verse placeholder.

[blupengu]

Oh boy oh boy I finished Yves’s route…! Spoilers under the cut as usual!

👁️👄👁️ bruh

Okay one thing at a time! First off - Hugo is SO Yvesexual oh my god?? Bro just confess already please I’m sorry Ceres is getting in the way! “Partner” pffft yeah okay mister “I literally died from feeling too much love” sure, I hope we all find our own Hugo one day 😂

Also while all the CGs were beautiful in this route (oh his mask coming off, oh him crying in the corner, aaah the one with him sobbing into Ceres 😭 probably the best kiss CG even though it’s just like.. on the cheek LOL), can we talk about Yves’s hair-down sprite? Like… what is that. What happened? Yves honey who did your hair? Did you shred it with your sword yourself?? I would normally brush it off if it just looked a little odd, but Mathis, Lucas, and Ankou all have perfectly normal looking long hair (even Scien’s looks more normal) so clearly this was a choice. But it was a bad choice sorry my boy 💀

Now back to the route itself, I really liked it overall! Yves and Ceres I think have had the best romantic relationship build up (even if they both desperately need therapy). I just gotta yell out some feelings as if this is a liveblog lmao

The way I gasped when Dahut and Nadia showed up? Seriously I did not expect these two to steal my heart so much?? They’re truly a balm for my soul… Any time Dahut shows up now I’m like OH THANK GOD someone who doesn’t need therapy 😩

So… the science in his game has always been *hand wavey* and I think I’m generally good at just going with the flow in fictional stories, but like……… HUH??? Bruh I had to put down my controller and just stare at the screen for a hot second. We’re part flower - aight cool cool anime shit sure whatever. Their genes are different colors - uhhhh… okay, sure I guess? A pair of chromosomes are killed each year and that’s why everyone dies when they turn 23 - HOLD UP WHAT NOW??? Yoooo that’s actually hilarious it made me bust out laughing 😂 (I also still don’t understand why Yves’s family didn’t just tell Scien or someone about the fact that it was the toxins in the soil killing people?? Like bruh)

The whole “relivers can’t learn or change so people can’t even switch careers because their bodies don’t change” thing is also so dumb. Like… what does that even mean? If you worked out would you not gain muscle?? Practicing something wouldn’t help?? What about Hugo going from someone who didn’t have to work a day in his life to one of the best fighters just behind Yves and Adolphe in the Corps after he had become a reliver??? Ah nono don’t think about the science, don’t think about the science… 😩

I did very much love our boys banding together at the end though! If only it was against the mcfucking Royal family and Capucine (and whoever this mysterious “sponsor” is) instead of against Scien… dude I support your experiments, they really should’ve just let us die this time LOL (very glad Capucine got his ass handed to him though, god I hate Capucine… even though he’s kinda pretty, he’s not Jean levels of pretty enough to make me not hate him, especially after Nadia 😂 thank you Scien)

Also I’m sorry I went very feral with Lucas breaking free and showing up to help, especially in the Bourreau outfit in front of Yves and Adolphe!! Yaaas baby go use your superhuman strength to kill everyone, you’re doing great sweetie, SLAY!!! (literally) 😩😂 I really uwu-ed when Dahut was like, yeah I look up to Lucas so I’m kinda pissed at you Scien (best adult boy)… why do I feel like he’s gonna have a better chance at a happier end in Yves’s route than his own fucking salvation end lmao

And final thoughts, where was Ankou at the end?? I loved that he showed up to help Yves and he was the one to give him his mask, but buddy where did you go at the end??? Is there some multiverse or time travel shit going on???? Ceres really decided to follow in the footsteps of Lucas’s despair end with Yves though huh… 👁️👄👁️ sweetie I’m so sorry we really turned you in BBQ, a burnt chicken nugget, fire emblem Sigurd 💀 LMAO

Can’t wait to get into Le Salut!!

(But really why did Yves get 5 chapters when everyone else got 4… is it because he’s poster boy…? It’s because he’s poster boy isn’t it…)

[mythvoiced]

" Pucker up. " It was not a suggestion. One hand gently held him in place by his chin, her other finger moving softly over his bottom lip and then his top. There was a sweet smelling balm on her fingertip. " That must be uncomfortable. " She said in regards to his slightly chapped lips, " This is Laneige, it's from Sephora. It's the best, trust me. " Of course, her finger was still moving against his lips, her own face close only to make sure it was well applied. That was what she would say anyway.

@astremourante | i need one of those medieval european paintings of queen & knight with them

---

You slam a bat long enough onto something and even strong metal starts to bend. So why is it that after having been bludgeoned times and times over it's the gentleness of her touch and her lungs mixing with his that start having the blade of his soul come undone?

He could equal it to the fire of a furnace, melting his ancient iron into a puddle of something perhaps meant to shape a kinder tool, rather than the axe lodged into his chest.

But he has no words, no imagery, none of the poetry of the ancients, so readily describing love in a while gods would hear envious to hear.

He's not a very eloquent man. A wordy man, a man who'd have the guts to open his own to the world.

He knows of all the ugly within him, the chapped insides, but it's not fear of rejection that stops him from opening his chest for her to take what she's slowly been claiming.

It's the terror he might flood her if he allows himself a droplet to spill.

He trembles only slightly beneath her touch, so very innocent if only he could stop thinking about all the ways it isn't. He doesn't equal it to anything beyond salvation he doesn't deserve, but that thought alone feels so tainted that innocence has no place near it.

This isn't the place for baptisms but Ajay feels baptised all the same, his head drowning in the struggle of keeping still, his lips parted as she demands, his gaze glued to her features as though he's counting the rays fracturing a cathedral's glass plates.

He barely breaths, soft puffs of air caressing her fingers. He tries not to swallow, tries not to move, almost perfectly still in her palms, under her ministrations, he's a wounded soldier welcomed back by the Goddess he'd fought in the name of, he's a soul of the damned whisked out of hell for having repented enough, he's the pomegranate seed to Persephone's stained fingers after she'd decided why not be Queen of the Dead as well.

She's his Persephone, beautiful and deadly and more than he deserves; she's Medea and he's the fool who would have never been her Jason but perhaps someone kinder, better, if only he didn't smell so much like blood and rot.

He's nothing whole, nothing heroic, nothing beautiful, but under her fingers, he becomes something real.

He could be her wrath if she wanted him to.

He could see it in her eyes, in the tightness of her snarl, in the fear she transforms into rage. All the scars that become strings who steer her according to the puppeteer her pain had become. He's not blind to the white-knuckles that come with all the times she'd gripped onto something to keep herself just sane enough to become the vengeance she deserves.

And she hates what she sees, he knows that look as well. Clothes her being literally and metaphorically as her best asset, but growls and screeches when someone tries to add an identity to her being, when someone tries to ask her where exactly she is behind the knives she'd glued to her tongue and hands to be never hurt again.

He could be her gun.

He opens his eyes again, unaware of when he'd closed them.

He could be her gun.

If he were to sin again, wouldn't it be better to do it against worse sinners? In the name of a Joan of Arc reclaiming herself and her life?

If he were to be a knight, shouldn't it be to a queen like her? A queen born out of her own mangled corpse?

His hands are only somewhat calloused when he gently rests his palm over her hand, callouses from before he'd stopped gained them, from before he'd become an immortal.

He doesn't tremble for once as he gently halts her movement and moves her hand to free her palm.

The kiss he places there is an oath, reverent and shattering.

When he looks at her, he does it with a shaky smile.

"Are they... better now?"

[emyluwinter]

By the way, Onboro can be some kind of "salvation" or a comfort zone for other students if you think about it.

Vil wants to take a break from public life and the duties of a prefect? Yuu provides him with a room with everything he needs at any time.

Often, Vil speaks very tenderly to his father, while is in Onboro. About everything they see fit. He knows that no living or "dead" soul will hear him.

Vil is well aware of how Yuu respects privacy and how they diligently declare their presence if they need to ask him something.

How relaxed and serene he feels that he never "criticizes" or corrects Yuu or Grimm when they are doing household chores.

He loves with all his heart this home environment of these two.

Yuu now has a list of recipes for very tasty and nutritious smoothies from berries and fruits, completely free of charge.

Sometimes Vil feels especially "villainous" and criticizes everything he sees in magazines or on his phone.

- No, it's just a violation of all the rules!! Wearing those pastel pink shoes with a neon green beret?

Yuu very often can't stop laughing when Wil behaves like this. They have to stuff a pillow in their face.

And they also discuss the latest gossip together. Grimm, unfortunately, does not participate because of his long tongue.

Jamil needs a "quiet island"? Onboro is at his service. Neither Yuu nor Grimm will bother him for several hours and Jamil, to put it mildly, will feel like after a five-year wonderful vacation.

After the noisy Scarabia with its feasts and parties. Onboro became a healing balm for his soul and heart.

Although perhaps Yuu will quietly bring him tea and light snacks as good hosts.

Jamil greatly appreciates their understanding of the importance of peace and quiet of others.

Now Yuu has a recipe book on the dishes of the Country of Hot Sands and a set of spices.

Jamil also often cooks something very quickly in the Onboro kitchen, leaving it for Grimm and Yuu.

Sometimes Leona comes to Onboro to take a nap in one place or another. It's quiet here, quite presentable even for him. And no one will even think to look for him here.

Yuu literally had to fight with a pillow from this lion so that they wouldn't steal their bed for the whole day.

Leona was very surprised when Yuu flatly refused to be the "servant" of the prince. Even for money. The herbivore definitely has nerves of steel.

This is their home and Leona has no power here.

Leona looks with great curiosity at how Yuu is trying to equip Onboro. Or runs the kitchen.

For some reason, it calms him down a lot.

No instructions, no demands. Well, almost none. Yuu forbids him to rob the refrigerator or use more firewood than necessary. And also to involve them in their machinations. Leone is always a little cooler in Onboro than in Savanacklaw.

No royal husks and stuff. Isn't that how ordinary people live?

Leona couldn't resist teasing Yuu a little. He was secretly surprised by the Prefect's "sharp" answers. No one had ever dared to speak to him in such a tone and in such words. He definitely likes this audacity and bravery.

Damn, he should definitely come here more often.

Riddle comes to "blow off steam"

Yuu came up with a good way for them to release all the accumulated anger and irritation.

Well, there are a lot of carpets and heavy curtains in Onboro, aren't there?

Yuu is even a little afraid when he sees with what fury and frenzy Riddle hits the carpet with a mop to knock out all the dust and dirt.

Riddle of course does it in a rasp and a mask so as not to inhale all this.

At least even if the carpet breaks, it won't be such a loss. Considering that some have holes almost with the growth of a Grimm or Lucius.

After that, Riddle becomes very tired.

Yuu gives them a nice cup of tea with snacks and asks about the landscaping of their garden. Riddle is calmed by these conversations and he likes to discuss certain plants that will bloom very beautifully in spring and summer.

After this "fierce attack on carpets" and tea, Riddle feels fine.

Trey had to ask what happens to Riddle when he leaves in extreme anger, and returns a few hours later very peaceful.

Does Azul need a break from business and deals? Yuu just leaves him tea and coloring pages. No matter how funny it sounds, but Azul even liked just painting some areas in completely ridiculous colors.

Azul was extremely surprised when he was able to stroke the sleeping Grimm on the couch.

It seems he now understands why Idia is so fanatical about cats.

This silky fur is very pleasant when you run your fingers over it.

At first, Azul insisted very stubbornly on "paying", but Yuu threatened them never to let them in again if he continued talking about working in Onboro.

Azul likes to lie on the sofa in the Onboro living room, stretching his legs, taking off his glasses or hiding under a blanket and curled up in a ball.

Once, Azul used a box in one of the rooms as his shelter, it was dark and crowded and no one else. Somewhat resembling his favorite octopus pot.

Yuu spent two hours to find him.

[ackerfics]

Hi can i please request a soft coffe date with Levi and after the date reader and Levi go in the park sit on a bench reader falls asleep on Levi’s lap or shoulder (u choose) and he caries her bridal style to home he just slips in bed beside her but he wakes her up accidentally and like he says sorry like so many times but she just kisses him and snuggles in his chest.After that they are both asleep.Love your works so so much!💕

best part  — levi ackerman

— levi ackerman x female reader (modern au)

— warnings: none, just fluff <3

— summary: it’s your first anniversary with levi and he made it a day to look forward to in the coming years.

— word count: 2.8k

— author’s notes: aaaaa thank you so much for loving my works, that means so much to me !! i slightly altered the request and made it a picnic date with some coffee on the side. i had fun writing this bc it screamed single in my face. [sighs] i feel like i’m torturing myself by writing these scenarios sksklfjwe anyways happy reading !!

reblogs are greatly appreciated !! 

Feelings were something that Levi couldn’t get a grasp on since he could remember. He was a stoic and reserved man, even among his peers — that was until he met the woman who made him weak in the knees. The first time he met her, he had to regain his composure when she gave him a small smile. The two of them were in front of the counter in the nearby café, with him ordering his daily dose of tea while she told the barista her favored blend of coffee. Levi remembered shaking his head at the unnecessary love for coffee — tea will always remain superior in his opinion. He apparently murmured that out loud, with the most beautiful pair of eyes shifting to meet his caught his heart and took his breath away.

Who knew that being regulars of that café and by visiting the establishment at the same time could make their fates align as if they were woven together.

Today was one of the rare times he had free time from university and the best part is that today marks their first anniversary as a couple.

Levi had no idea what to do. Since he was an absolute goner in the feats of romance, he tried consulting his friends. It was something he mildly regretted. Erwin was the same as him, always focused on academics that he doesn’t have any time for relationships. The fucking giant suggested he should stay true as possible in his intentions, planning just a small date that can fit their little world together — not grandeur at all, to which Levi slightly took note of. Next, asking Hange was an absolute disaster. Knowing that you shared a major with this buffoon, they announced to the whole lab that Levi’s taking you on a date on your anniversary. It was a good thing they don’t know what he was planning.

So Levi decided on a small picnic date, with food and drinks from the café you two frequented.

Everything was packed safely and securely in a basket on the front seat of his car. To be honest, this was the first time he stood the longest in front of his closet. Planning what to wear was a total waste of time but he wasn’t complaining about his outfit for the day even though it was similar to the outfits he donned every day. He kept stretching his turtleneck in the anticipation of seeing you after your lab. While he waited in the parking lot closest to your department building, Levi was scrolling through his social media accounts.

It always warmed his heart every time he visited his feed on Instagram, every single post featuring you. Hange said it was simp behavior and Levi didn’t talk to them for an entire week. (Well, after having a reflection at one of your dates, staring at you like you were his salvation, he concluded that Hange was right.)

A message appeared on his screen, making his lips quirk up in the smallest yet endearing way possible.

i’m going out of the lab now, i’m so excited for our date

Levi looked up from his phone, seeing your bubbly smile lighting up the parking lot. Even though the windows are tinted, he reciprocated your wave. He unlocked the door of the passenger seat and suddenly, the fruity scent of your perfume enveloped him in a warm blanket of comfort. The next thing he knew, his shoulders relaxed in a droop, meeting your eyes as you lit up at the sight of the basket.

“Hi,” you greeted him, taking the basket and putting it on your lap as you made yourself comfortable on the front seat.

Levi turned to face you and leaned forward, hands pulling on the seatbelt and securing you beside him. He stopped with only a few inches separating your faces, his half-lidded silver gaze going back and forth between your lips and eyes. After a few seconds, uttered so softly against your lips, “Hi, beautiful.” The feeling of your lips moving against his always gave him a torpedo of butterflies, today’s occasion only spurring the insects to flutter their wings that it felt so electrifyingly good. With a little swipe of his tongue on your bottom lip, he hummed as he pulled away with red cheeks and a small smirk on his now shiny lips. “You put on blueberry.”

“Yeah,” you agreed with a small laugh, kissing him again quickly that he pouted.

“You know I can’t stop when you have that flavor of lip balm.”

You playfully narrowed your eyes. “I thought we have a date to go to.”

“Just one more?”

You grinned at how clingy Levi was becoming. It was rare for him to be like this and every time he acts like a touch-starved partner, it was too much for your weak heart. You held yourself back from pushing his cheeks together and marveling how adorable this side of him is. Leaning to fit your lips against his, you gave him what he wanted. “There. Now, let’s go on this date you’ve been planning.”

Levi chuckled as he straightened on his seat. He placed a hand on the back of your seat, looking behind him as he steered the car out of the parking lot and into the cityscape. The whole ride, his other hand was covering one of yours on top of the basket, his thumb rubbing soothingly across the back of your hand. You hummed along with the song playing on the radio, missing the adoring glances Levi gave you every once in a while. Fifteen minutes flew by so quickly and the car stopped in the small parking area of the local park. The two of you got out of the car, Levi pulling your hand in his, and leading you to a nice spot in the emerald plains.

With both ends held between you two, the picnic blanket was carefully draped on the grass, then making yourselves comfortable on the laid-out blanket. Levi took out everything nestling inside the basket — some wrapped sandwiches, a container of berries, shawarma wraps, and a small tin of oatmeal cookies. You were starving since you ate a salad from the university’s convenience store early in the morning for your lab meeting. As each container was revealed by Levi, you were anticipating the moment you will have your fill. Your stomach seemed to agree with your line of thought, interrupting the comfortable silence with a low gurgle. Levi looked up from tidying everything, eyebrow raised in slight amusement.

You felt your face become warm. “Oh, shut up. I haven’t eaten anything since nine in the morning. I’m bound to be hungry after not eating lunch.”

Levi clicked his tongue, pushing the sandwiches in front of you. “Who told you to skip lunch anyway?”

You leaned forward, fluttering your eyelashes with an innocent smile. “I have you to bring me my go-to order in the café anyway.” You bit down on a clubhouse sandwich. Everything became light when your palate was immediately satisfied. You couldn’t help but eat the sandwich as quickly as possible because being hungry enhances the taste of food.

“Hey, slow down,” Levi lightly scolded you. “You might choke.” The next second, you were coughing after gobbling the sandwich in a new record. Levi turned to the basket and took out a large cup of iced coffee, handing it to you to wash down whatever was lodged in your throat. “Here, drink it off.”

You would’ve cooed at the sight of your favorite blend of coffee if not for your life on the line with all your coughing. Slurping the cold liquid until you felt your cough subsiding, you let out a contented sigh as you slumped against Levi’s side. You smiled when you felt a pair of lips brushing on your head. You took a drink of your coffee before muttering, “What would I do without you?”

“Probably die of choking. I told you to slow down every time you’re hungry but it will always end with you having food down the wrong pipe.”

You laughed. “I still have you to remind me that.” You looked up at him, catching the adoring look Levi was giving you. You took it as a moment to admire him as well. His eyes will always remind you of the stars, their silvery glow so bright against any source of light. A lot has happened in the year you were together and you were starting to wish you could paint your love in the most vibrant hues. Leaning up, you pressed a kiss on the corner of Levi’s lips. “I’m so happy it’s you,” you murmured on his cheek, forehead pressed on his temple.

Levi stared at you with half-lidded eyes, hand lifting to brush a thumb on the apple of your cheek. Your name dripping from his lips made your heart flutter. His throat bobbed, his mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to say something. Just as you were about to ask him what was bothering him, Levi dipped his head until his lips stopped beside your ear. He always did this whenever he has to say something that was meant for your ears only. You patiently waited for him to muster his courage, rubbing the hand cradling your jaw. However, you breathed out a gasp when he finally said the words that you were never afraid to tell him.

“I love you. So fucking much.”

You could only stare at his embarrassed face, surprise taking away your voice. On normal days, you would’ve teased him for the blush creeping his face, reaching his ears that had you swooning. But now, the sight of his reddened cheeks and restless eyes made your face heat up. Your heartbeat was so loud in your ears, the effect of your lover’s confession spurring your senses in overdrive. You felt so many things at the moment, you felt proud of Levi for voicing out his feelings to you and you felt all the love dedicated to him gathering in your chest.

“I know it took me a whole year to say these words to you and I’m not that great with feelings unlike some people you know,” Levi rambled, silver irises flicking at anything but you. “B-But,” he cursed at his stutter, “I really do love you. I’m so fucking happy that it’s you, too. You are so patient with me and I’m starting to think that I don’t deserve you.” He said your name again in that fluttering way that made your heart clench. “Happy anniversary to us finding home in each other. I want this to last and I hope you won’t get tired of me.”

“I would never,” you reassured him, cupping his cheeks in your hands. “You took the words right out of my mouth, Levi. I love you, too. Everything in my life involving you is the best part of it.”

Levi planted his lips on yours, kissing you like it was the last time he could ever do so. “You’re making me weak and I don’t mind if you do it for the rest of my life.”

You suddenly perked up; eyes bright as you remembered the gift you tucked in your bag. “I got something for you.” You took out a small black box and handed it to a wide-eyed Levi. “I know it’s not much but it reminded me of you.”

A silver simple bracelet was placed on top of a small cushion, a thin plate connecting the two ends of the bracelet. Levi didn’t buy any gifts for you except for planning the date and it made him feel guilty. His eyebrows were furrowed as he stared at the piece of jewelry, his apology clear in his eyes. “I didn’t buy any gift for this day. Fuck.”

You chuckled, unclasping the bracelet and putting it on Levi’s wrist. Your fingers touched the bracelet gingerly, a wistful painted on your lips. “This date and you saying you love me for the first time couldn’t amount to what I just gave you.” You kissed him on the cheek. “You’re already the best gift I could ask for, a simple bracelet is nothing compared to you.”

Levi smiled breathtakingly before nuzzling his face in the crook of your neck, eliciting a series of giggles from you.

“Okay, now let’s dig in. I’m still hungry, you know.”

“You’re always hungry, love.”

“Thank you for the coffee, by the way.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now eat some more.”

-

You look so peaceful sleeping with your head on his lap.

It was nearing sunset by the time you were getting drowsy. The food was already finished half an hour ago but that didn’t stop you two from continuing the picnic date by exchanging stories. You were in the middle of telling Levi your encounter with your juniors when you yawned. Levi suggested you try to get some rest after a busy week in your major, taking his advice with a hum as you laid down on the blanket. The cups and containers were all tidied up in the basket beside him and Levi thought that it will be getting late the more time you spend in the park.

He decided against waking you up so he put on your backpack, tucked the basket on the crook of his elbow, and slid his arm on your back and under your knees. He carried you carefully until he reached his car, slowly placing you in the front seat, and buckling your seatbelt. He kissed your forehead before putting the basket and bag in the backseat. The drive to your shared apartment was spent with Levi glancing at your sleeping form and the bracelet that reflected against the sunset.

Entering the apartment building after parking the car in the basement lot, carrying everything, including you, proved to be quite difficult until he reached the door to your apartment. Levi had to stick to the wall to prevent you from falling to the floor as he pressed the passcode to your and Levi’s living space. Leaving his shoes in the rack by the entrance, Levi padded to your room.

As he placed you on the covers, he realized he was staring too much with your bag on his back and the basket still tucked in his elbow. After taking off your backpack, he hastily returned to the kitchen to leave the basket on the counter. The events of the day suddenly entered his mind and a smile instantly pulled on the corners of his mouth. You were the best thing that happened in his life. You encouraged him to pick himself up after finding himself stuck in limbo. Your smile was one of the prettiest things he ever saw on the planet, which says something because Levi never described anything as pretty in all his life. (Except for his mom but that’s already a given since he would get a scolding whenever he visits home.) Sure, he was bummed that he didn’t give you anything for your anniversary but today will be one of the days he will look forward to celebrating.

That’s all that matters.

Going back to your room, Levi changed into his pajamas and slipped into bed with you.

Levi froze for a moment when you shifted your position, humming as you opened your eyes drowsily. You smiled at him but that didn’t stop Levi from feeling guilty about waking you up. He knew how much you needed sleep. He was a witness to your sleepless nights and caffeinated rushes so taking away the one thing you find solace in was shitty.

“Are we home?” you murmured in a voice painted with sleep.

“Shit, baby, I’m sorry for waking you up,” Levi fussed. “Yeah, we’re home but I didn’t wake you up because you’re sleeping so well. I’m really sorry.”

You only laughed, leaning up to kiss your lover. Levi poured everything in the kiss, opening his eyes slowly to the feeling of your body snuggling in his side. “I love you, Levi.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart.”

He didn’t mean to wake you up so Levi laid on his back and pulled you closer until your head nuzzled his chest. His eyes never looked away from you, roaming and soaking in your peaceful features. You were easily the most beautiful person in Levi’s mind. How your eyelashes touched the top of your cheeks, how your eyebrows relaxed at the physical contact with him, how your lips quirked in a small smile at the feeling of him enveloping you. He could admire you all evening but his eyelids were already tugging downwards. Maybe it was the way your saccharine scent calmed his senses or maybe it could be the way you felt so right fitted to him like this.

It could be so many reasons but all Levi knew was that he had never felt so comfortable in his life, pulling him in a dreamless sleep filled solely with your warmth.

[reylofanfictionanthology]

TO FIND YOUR KISS - AUTHOR REVEALS!

Here are our treat authors for this year’s exchange!

To Find Your Kiss collection on AO3 | Gift Fic Master Post

TREATS MASTERPOST

- Sunflowers & Special Blend by FangirlintheForest for abbytheatre08  

Ben is a barista who draws on each of his customer's coffee cups.  Rey is a customer who wants to get one of his drawings tattooed. Will  she find the courage to talk to him?

A Reylo Coffee Shop AU

- a page in your book if you let me by like_a_dove for crysania

After being dumped a week before Valentine's Day, Rey accepts Poe's offer to fly across the country and stay at his house for a week while he stays at hers. She doesn't have much expectations.

Then on the first night a large, drunk man barges in unannounced and changes her life as she knows it.

- The Beast You've Made of Me by LRRH17 for cuddlesome

Rey finds a way to bring Ben back.

- A Wash of Broken Bits by misszeldasayre for firelord65

Bounty hunter Ben Solo has not spoken to his father in seven years, and he has no plans to pick up that nasty habit again. But when the Scavenger, known for her deadshot and hidden face, approaches him with a bounty puck bearing Han Solo’s hologram, Ben persuades her to help him track down his father before other hunters collect the reward. As they scour the galaxy for Han, Ben and Rey take off their masks and allow each other to be seen.

- Where angels and shadows foregather by midwinterspring for LittleLostStar

Ben meets Rey on a magical night in Los Angeles...

Inspired by Evalyn's gorgeous and ethereal album Salvation.

- Sweet Briar Rey by XarisEirene for LRRH17

Rey’s grandfather curses her to die by the thorn of a Kelsen-briar; Ben’s grandfather blesses her to wake by the kiss of her true love. A canonverse retelling of the Sleeping Beauty fairy tale.

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

He’d wanted to kiss her in life. Did he dare to kiss her in death? Would she mind? He dragged the rough pad of his thumb across the supple skin of her lips. Just once. He’d regret it forever if he didn’t.

- Time is a circle by Blueyedgurl  for midwinterspring

Ben goes exploring an old mansion that he is inexplicably drawn to. Rey follows him home, unearthing the love she lost long ago.

- Repairer of the Fences by englishable for niennathegrey

Rey certainly never expected to become the sole  inheritor of her caretaker's farm and lands, but then the Reverend Luke  Skywalker was always known as something of an eccentric. After a life of  belonging nowhere, and of being a nobody, it is a welcomed change.

The  sudden reappearance of Luke's purportedly long-dead nephew is a  slightly less gladdening development, by comparison, but Rey could at  least use an extra pair of hands for the winter. As for the rest of the  man, she will have to find out.

- high hopes by thewayofthetrashcompactor for notkellymarie

A couple's first Valentine's together is always a minefield of expectations. Ben wants to give Rey everything she deserves, but starts to worry that she's looking for something else.

(Happy ending, of course)

- A World of Their Own by misszeldasayre for OccasionallyCreative

After surviving the Battle of Exegol, Rey embraces anonymity to seek out her happily ever after with Ben by her side.

- show me the stars. by shariling for Priestly

“I have work tomorrow, no.”

He snuffles and  keeps rutting, turning to lick his rough tongue on her cheek, down her  neck. She grins, loving it, pushing her tiny hands down his huge chest  to touch at his engorged, overheated cock. It feels like it’s burning  her palms, velvety and smooth in a way that’s reminiscent of his human  half — hot like her hands are a balm to the fever taking him now. His  breath comes out hotter, clouded against her skin, thick enough that it  could be a blanket laid over top of her. It just makes her laugh, two  hands encouraging his cock fully out of the sheath, wriggling her  shoulders on the mattress until she’s scooched down far enough to cup  his balls. Whining, he licks at what he can get of her — mostly her  hair, as if grooming.

“I have work,” she says again, fondness in  her voice. Scooching again, she sinks lower, face to face with his  belly, her hand snaking further down until her fingers are pressed to  the flat twist of his hole. “But you don’t.”

- Heirs to a Glimmering World by misszeldasayre for Prix

Discovering that she’s pregnant brings Rey grief and hope, and another chance to find Ben.

- Nighttime in the Garden by Blueyedgurl  for QueenOfCarrotFlowers

Ben is recovering from a severe injury. Rey is his in-home nurse. She actually lives in the building behind his and he can watch her come and go from her apartment. What happens when the news reports on a missing man and he uncovers her secret?

- Dirty Vegas by Camucia for SpaceWaffleHouseTM

Getting invited to the national career tech teacher’s conference in Las Vegas was one of Rey's greatest achievements as a second year educator, thank you very much. Never mind the fact that her less-than-stellar school could only afford to send her due to extensive grant money, and that the only reason she even got this job was because so few people could even teach the content.

As long as she was as far away as possible from that horrible Alpha from the rival school, Ben Solo.

A woke-up-mated fic through the lens of someone who has gone to more of these conferences and competitions than they ever wanted to in their life.

[pricechecktranslations]

E.A.T. Prologue infomine

Alright, as before:

Bear in mind this is NOT a translation. This is an infomine. I am sharing only the basic info. There’s a lot about the story in terms of tone and characterization that will be missing until I get to a full translation.

Scene 1

Ron is inside the “fat man’s” room, maintaining a miraculous thing inside it that’s neither lifeless nor alive, and gives off a phosphorescent green light that kills anyone who’s in the room for too long (pretty sure it’s some radioactive material). His job is to maintain it because if the light goes out the theater will crash (it appears to be their source of power), and he’s the only one who can survive being near it, given his curse of always regenerating (note, his flesh is largely destroyed by the radiation when he leave the room but starts growing back within minutes).

Oh, and dead soldiers are now being called “dead servants”.

When Ron is finished with his work he heads out, the theater now silent when it was noisy before. He is greeted by his underling Fry Kitchen, who has the head of a chicken and uses “ssu” in his sentences like Chartette (though in hiragana not katakana—he also uses the more working class personal pronoun of asshi). He cheerfully informs Ron that all the other dead soldiers were killed by a hero troupe who invaded the theater (Ron’s not surprised so I guess this was going on while he was working).

Fry is the weakest of them, but he survived through Lich’s help (Lich is still alive).

Ron goes to talk to Lich, who is outside the theater.

Apparently they are not longer in the world of “Giants battling with beastmen” (I think the world at the end of Heavenly). They’re in a different world now.

Scene 2

A bit of exposition on Ron (wandered the earth for ages, now works for Banica, etc).

The new world they are in has wind, the sky is blue, and the scenery appears little changed from the world they were just in save for that it’s covered in the ruins of a crumbled civilization. It seems barren but there is apparently some life left in it.

They see a black bird flying towards them with a girl riding its back. The bird turns out to be a transformed Lich. They open the front door for him.

The girl said nothing while they spoke, and she has a horn on her forehead.

Scene 3

It’s ambiguous how long it’s been since Heavenly—Ron’s narrative implies it could have been a day or several years.

Ron meets with Lich (now humanoid again) in the main hall, getting him some water. Lich doesn’t need to eat, but he does need water, or his mud body will dry up and become unable to move. Also, he can take moisture from food through his makeshift digestive system, and taste things.

Ron asks about the girl, who is sleeping in a guest room Fry set up. He’s anxious because of what happened with Jarre from the giants world (I guess it was his hero troupe that killed everyone). Lich is unconcerned because he can make them new bodies, but when Ron asks about it he gets a little testy and takes him up to his room.

Inside was a beastman (or rather, demi-human) like Fry, someone covered in white fur with two big ears. It’s the rabbit(bunny?) hero Jarre. asleep/unconscious. Ron’s comments make it sound like Jarre betrayed them at the last minute.

Lich explains that it’s not Jarre’s soul in that body anymore, but Pollo. Cue some exposition on how Arte and Pollo had killed Ron, who used to be human. Lich tells Ron that he failed to account for the fact that the mud he uses to make the bodies only exists in Evillious, and their supply was destroyed during the attack. So Jarre’s body was the only one he could put Pollo in.

The same was true for Fry—he was a beastman from the world they were just in. After the giants killed him, Lich put him back in his original body to make him a dead servant as an experiment.

Lich has done the same with Eater and Arte, who are in the next room, using the bodies of Jarre’s friends. Ron asks about Banica, and Lich decides to take him to the clocktower (the cockpit of the theater) to discuss the matter with Seth.

Scene 4

Some repeat exposition on Seth (he claims he’s Lich’s friend, Lich denies it).

When they get in the cockpit, Seth is there in his mask form (which surprises Ron). Lich explains that while ordinarily they would need lots of people to run the ship, Seth actually built the theater so that it could be operated by him alone if need be. They needed to get him a new body when Jarre killed him, but they didn’t have time or resources to do it, so Lich merged the soul archive housing his spirit data with the ship—Seth is now the theater itself.

Seth asks if Lich will give him one of the beastmen bodies they have in storage now that the danger is over, but Lich refuses, saying he doesn’t have one prepared (Seth accuses him of just being mean). The two of them bicker for a bit, and Ron reflects on how he doesn’t get the relationship between them.

Lich then decides to get to the point, saying their goal of finding new food for Banica has to be put on hold for now.

Scene 5

This is just repeat exposition on Banica and what’s led up to now.

Scene 6

As Lich says, they were all killed off by the beastmen. Jarre sliced Ron down himself (but Ron regenerated). But they were all souls to begin with. As long as the “soul archive” they have in the theater isn’t destroyed, they can be revived again and again. Lich ran out of mud to make bodies with, so he used the beastmen bodies instead. This worked for everyone—except Banica.

Apparently there’s a difference in quality between Banica’s souls and everyone else’s. Lich, Arte, Pollo, Eater, and Seth all have souls closer to gods. Banica’s soul was originally that of a normal human. Her soul had special qualities while she’d contracted with Vlad, but now that he’s escaped and didn’t come with them, her soul is now human again.

There are ways to revive her, but it’s tricky. He could make a body with mud, but they don’t have any. And they can’t go back to Evillious because of “Ma’s Ghost”. That is—when they first started dimension hopping, they had issues and almost crashed. Lich investigated and determined this to be a result of Ma’s Ghost. He’s not entirely sure what’s going on there or what it is exactly, but apparently it tries to destroy anything that attempts to enter the Evillious world.

The other option they have is to find Banica’s alter ego. This is out of Lich’s expertise so Seth offers to take over, but Lich refuses, claiming he’ll be too long-winded and sesquipedalian. The alter ego will probably be different from Banica in every way, but her soul will be of the same quality. And so, there’s a good chance that Banica can use their body.

Lich is certain the girl he brought back is Banica’s alter ego, in this world of “Angels and Demons”. He’s certain because he analyzed the Akashic Record (not sure what he means by that, and Ron doesn’t understand either).

Ron is uncertain if they have the right to kill the girl to bring Banica back. Lich brushes him off, but while Ron accepts that they are “close to gods” and thus the rules don’t apply to them, he’s different. Lich argues with him, but Ron isn’t convinced.

He’d already become an undead when Banica contracted, so he couldn’t stop her from falling to evil. Still, he wants to avoid the same thing happening again.

Back before he joined her, he had the option of going through the gate to be reincarnated. But he doesn’t know if his curse would be lifted if he went through. Some of the people who went through were once his family, but he feels like it’s been too long now (and their memories were erased upon reincarnating anyway).

Ron argues that he knows the suffering of never being able to die. He argues about that with Lich (whether it’s the right thing, to bring Banica back to life or not), when Seth interjects that it’s best to ask the person they’re talking about.

He’s put Banica in a red cat body, implied to be a replica of the one he made for Irina, until they can get her in her alter ego’s body. Ron is happy she simply has a body at all, but she’s far from pleased with it (also this body requires moisture to function properly, so we can assume that’s why Irina was able to drink milk as well).

Banica ponders taking her alter ego’s body, not minding her looks but finding her blindness to be an issue.

Lich turns on a monitor in the cockpit that shows a map of the world they’re in, explaining it’s one of the Third Period’s parallel worlds, and is very physically similar to it. The race that rules it (or used to) are demons—though he clarifies they are not like the demons of Evillious, and are more just a race that is called demons. A race called angels fought against them, though they’ve either died out or they’ve gone behind the theater’s reach. He only knows they’re humanoids with wings on their backs because the girl (Baamu Kuuren —Berm? Balm? Barm? Kulen? I don’t know) mistook him for one.

Lich also explains he can turn into a bird partially as a result of running an experiment on himself when putting the others in beastmen bodies to make sure that there wouldn’t be any rejections (not totally sure I’ve understood that correctly).

Banica notes that if the girl is a demon, and she thought he was an angel, it’s weird that she trusted him. Lich chalks it up to her being helpless and seeking salvation, and also his natural charisma. –Before revealing he’s joking and that he expects her to try and stab him in the back.

Balm is the imperial princess of the (Puraashino) Empire that ruled the demons. She is the only member of her family who survived the war with the angels, and it was apparently an angel that burned her eyes.

Lich asks for permission to kill her so they can use it as Banica’s body (note—Banica occasionally claws Lich’s face during this scene), but Banica wants him to fix the issue with her eyes first. Lich and Seth argue a little—Lich plans to use one of the beastmen bodies as material for the eyes, but Seth argues that’s a bad idea because they’re from another dimension.

Lich leaves to begin on his work. Ron asks Banica if she’s really going to steal that girl’s body, and she asks him what he would do if he found his alter ego. He can’t answer.

Scene 7

As Seth foretold, Lich can’t fix the eye problem using the beastmen bodies even after several days.

Ron is setting out milk for Banica in the main room, and Fry is bemoaning what a brat Balm is. She’s plucked the feathers on his arm. He also says something about her horn? (I think that it has some kind of tactile sense of things, despite her being blind?)

As Banica is musing over putting the girl to work, Arte and Pollo (both bunny beastmen) come in, followed by Eater, now an enormous Asian black bear, carrying lumber. As they get to work, Banica explains to Ron that she’s been thinking since the whole thing with Jarre happened. Now that she’s lost her demon powers, she shouldn’t be picking fights with people from other dimensions willy-nilly like that. So she’s converting the main hall into a restaurant (it’s not like Evils Theater 2 has a theater room anyway), I guess to better fit in with the other worlds they go to. Ron laughs because this is very like her.

Ron wonders if she’ll have Balm cook, since Banica only has two at her disposal (Eater and Arte) and they both have other duties as well. Banica is confident that Balm can cook, being another version of herself. And, she’ll have a mentor.

At that, she summons a dog beastman wearing a white chef’s hat. She calls him Mister Dog, and tells him to teach Balm how to cook. He agrees and leaves, and when Ron asks where he came from, Banica says that he’s always been here (it’s Carlos, guys).

There’s a bit of thought on why Ron accompanied Banica this time, that it’s not entirely out of loyalty. When he saw her again she greeted him as though the last few hundred years had never happened and told him all about her travel plans. He’d never traveled with her before, as he had to watch the house. It actually made him slightly envious whenever she would come home and tell him about it.

They had finished talking, and to sum up the convo basically he decided to go on the journey with her he couldn’t do all those centuries ago. Though he’s still not sure entirely why even now.

[threeminutesoflife]

Manipulation Station

Pairings: Snowpiercer Dark!Curtis x Dark!Reader

Warnings: 18+, Snowpiercer movie (movie line*) spoilers, unprotected sex, poisoning.

Summary: Curtis accepts Wilford's offer to lead the train and selects the Reader, the resident executioner for the first class criminals, as he wife.

Written for @jtargaryen18​ Dark Curtis Holiday Challenge. The way she writes is an absolute favorite. Read and enjoy her pieces- she's a gifted lady!

Prompt: “I don’t owe you patience or trust.”

Word Count: 10.5k

“Do you think you’ll be safe when I’m gone, dear girl?”

“I can take care of myself, Wilford. I have most of my life.”

“Yes, but you’ll need to sleep sometime.”

Wilford rose from the chair and made his way to the rolling drink cart along the office wall, “You’re great at what you do. You’re an investment to order.” He smiled proudly at you before turning his back to mix a dirty martini. “But when I’m gone, there may be family members looking for revenge. That worries and saddens me deeply. To think I can no longer protect you. Especially after everything you’ve done and all those times you’ve kept order on our sacred engine.”

One.

Two.

Three olives plopped into the glass.

You bit the inside of your cheek at his words, remembering how many past punishments and executions you carried out in Wilford’s name. The many times you were requested to maintain control for him and administer repercussions on the first and second-class passengers.

You were good at it. Maybe too good. Without Wilford’s protection, you’d have to be on constant watch until someone relieved you from your executing position permanently.

“This may not even come to pass, but if it does- I need to know you’ll agree. I need you. He’ll need you. Between you and me, Gilliam reassures me you’re a shoo-in. And I don’t doubt you for a moment, dear,” Wilford raised his glass to toast you before sipping the drink. “Curtis’ll want you on the spot. You’re an extremely important tool. Trust me. You’re more his type than even he realizes.”

“I do trust you,” you replied automatically. “I always have. You’ve protected me and allowed me the pleasure of administering your final word to those ungrateful, sir.”

“Exactly, dear girl. You understand my picture,” Wilford patted your shoulder as he passed by to take a seat. “Our picture. I need you to keep being that important tool. Keep the train on the right track, so to speak.”

He winked at you before biting into an olive.

Lifting a silver dome cover off the platter, Wilford offered you a warm chocolate chip cookie.

“You, my girl,” he said while waggling his selected cookie in air, “know the right kind of structure. And that kind of structure is our right kind of order. Things must remain as they are, the order must remain as it is. But most importantly, you respect it. You’ll teach Curtis to do the same. I need you at his side. Connected in all ways.”

“But marriage? I don’t understand the purpose, Wilford. It seems unnecessary, we’re forever on this train-”

“He’ll have too much power if he makes to the front. I need you to harness your husband, show him how good things are up here. Let him see what he’s been missing, let him feel like you and him are a united front. You two will be the face of what structure must be, an example and reminder of what was and should be. To keep the structure, you must be structured.”

You coughed slightly around the cookie locked between your lips. Working with someone upon Wilford’s request was one thing, but annexing yourself to another person… What was the purpose of that? But there was a small voice growing louder in your head, reminding you that you needed to be on Curtis’ side if you wanted to survive longer than Wilford’s burial rites. Still, having to give up your freedom completely…

“Why marriage when I can simply work for him- like I do for you, sir?”

“Call me old fashion or an engineer of the future,” Wilford explained further, chucking regally at his choice of words. “Either way, I want you both devoted to each other and the train. Standards and images must be upheld, dear girl. You two will be married and form a united front- for generations to come. We need a little more Norman Rockwell than Kathe Kollwitz.”

Only receiving your silence to his humor, Wilford could tell you were not entirely on board with the marriage role. Why would useless established legalities of marriage be necessary in the confines of a wayward world? It wouldn’t.

Yes, he could easily weave the loom to have you aligned with Curtis as a business partner, but Wilford always liked a bit of extra flair. One extra churn from the pepper grinder for his food. You giving in and agreeing to an unnecessary marriage to Curtis, especially forgoing all reluctance to do so, would reassure Wilford of your loyalty to the train even when he’d no longer be in charge.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

He was determined to present the marriage to you in a way you wouldn’t be able to refuse for long. And fear was always a great motivator.

Classics were classic for a reason.

Wilford needed you linked with Curtis. He needed you alive. You were the key; one easy twist in a locked situation that would open resolution. Wilford needed to reward Curtis’ efforts for his revolt and still ensure his ideal vision of the train remained steadfast. You would be the soothing balm to both their burns.

Making sure you were taken care of when Wilford retired was not an act of deep affection or fatherly love, but rather an earned promotion.

A reward for your years of service and delivery of results. Your safety and success would be ensured if you remained in a powerful position. With you safe, you would continue to reap and sow order throughout the train. Your results exponential.

Wilford knew everyone’s history aboard his train. It was his way to keep all things in place, all order- organized and properly named.

Before Wilford gave you passage on the train, you were a gifted student winning science awards and scholarships; catching Wilford’s attention with your potential by winning one of his sponsored grants. Years later when he reviewed your file, the idea of an executioner position bloomed in his brain. He knew you would do perfectly, a vixen face with a delight for mixing chemicals.

Wilford knew human nature had its moments of people falling back to their more animalistic tendencies. But he thought the front end-ers still deserved a more humane and posh way of dealing with crime. Executions did not have to be so graphically unappealing.

Imagine is everything, and who better to administer those punishments than a charming lady? Afterall, the first-class passengers did pay an absorbent amount of money for the privileged to ride his train. Fine taste should be given and enjoyed- even until the final stop.

“Dear girl, this inconvenient uprising may not even become too successful. More than likely, it will end shortly after it’s begun, or when the tallies add up to the necessary sum. However, if there’s a hail mary of achievement, I need to know you agree. When you do, I’ll tell him to allow you to keep your position as executioner. That your role is needed as a giver of dignified death. Besides, I know you, dear girl. I know how much you need that outlet. How that power sings to you and helps ease your cabin fever. That hobby allows you to slip away for a moment- I don’t want you to be denied that peace in the future. Besides, a gift like yours? A gift like you? It would hard for Curtis to deny you much.”

“Is that all though?” Frowning at your cookie and picking away at a chip, smearing and streaking the soft chocolate across the pristine plate. “To keep-”

“You’ve known about the train’s unique replacement parts and protein bars. The careful balance needed to keep the wheels running on this godforsaken frozen track. The balance needed to be kept order between the tail and front ends. You see how kronole is supplied to keep residents distracted. You’re the someone who knows what really goes on, and most importantly, you’ve always reacted positively to my orders and vision. Don’t let me lose you, I want to keep you safe. I need you to do this for me, my dear girl. Agree and marry Curtis. If he makes it- you are my backup plan, my little piece of salvation. Protect him, so I can in turn protect you when I’ve retired. Humor an old man with his old ways.”

“Why not Claude?”

“She’s not the right choice for this. He won’t choose her, especially since she’s the one who measures the parts. You’re my ace in the hole, dear girl. Gilliam and I both agree. Curtis is going to favor you out of the others.”

You took a moment to think of Wilford’s proposition. Keep the order, help steer the new conductor- do what you’re always enjoyed. After all, Wilford just wants you to remain safe. There was a part of you still unsure about the arranged marriage. The idea of it being legal or not, it was unnecessary but you knew Wilford liked to make a show of things. You were tempted to ask more questions, but then you looked Wilford in the eyes.

This was your protector.

His benevolence and care saved you. His vision kept you alive.

Wiping your hand across the linen napkin, you agreed, “I’ll do it. I owe you my life and safety. You’ve allowed me to test my poisons and feed my creativity, sir. The train will remain balanced. First-class shall remain proper, even in their deaths as you’ve always said.”

Wilford winked at you before biting into the soft treat, “Excellent. We shouldn’t be savages to our own, dear girl.”

~~~

When rumors of the impending revolt drew closer, Wilford reminded you of your role in the contingency plan.

When the revolt birthed as fact, Claude collected you with a bit of blood still on her face as she told you Wilford needed to discuss what was happening immediately.

There were no warm chocolate chip cookies offered this time as you asked what spurred the revolt on quicker than what was anticipated, “Why now?”

Claude scoffed behind you, “Idiot. As if animals need a reason.”

The two of you always were odd acquaintances; a mutual honor among thieves that was heavily seasoned with mutual dislike. Stiffening in your seat and gathering your tolerance in with a deep breath, you waited for Wilford’s answer.

“It escalated when Claude went to measure and retrieve a new part.”

“So, he claims ownership of the part?” You quickly inquired. You didn’t think to ask Wilford earlier if Curtis had family of his own before you agreed to all this.

Wilford’s smile stretched broadly at your phrasing, claiming ownership. Yes, he was very pleased you had the right mentality.

Claude’s eyes darted between you and Wilford, hating how he viewed you a blue ribbon breeding bitch for his soon-to-be prized stud.

Trying to regain ground and favor, Claude chimed in confidently, “They are nothing, they own nothing. Wilford is the sole owner.”

Intrigued to see where this potential debate may lead, Wilford picked up his spoon and returned to enjoying the decadent chocolate mousse he started before your arrival.

Dinner theatre, he mused to himself. How he missed attending those outings.

Not bothering to correct or address Claude to her face, you stared straight ahead in Wilford’s direction, “They are not nothing, Claude. They have a role and a purpose. Perhaps, they have even more importance than a glorified bed warmer? Or even a polite poisoner? Without them fucking like animals, as you said, we wouldn’t have replacement pieces. Without their role and purpose, the sacred engine would fail and we would perish.”

Her silence gave you a small satisfaction.

Turning in your seat, you looked at her now, “Tell me Claude. If the sacred engine ever stops due to lack of replacement parts and you’re frozen, when your vagina’s as cold as your heart, who’s bed could you possibly warm then?”

Claude shot out of her seat, fully intending to warm the surface of table by smashing the side of your face down onto it as she stalked over towards your direction.

“Sit down, Claude!” Wilford pulled the silver spoon of his mouth and pointed it at her.

“But she-“

Wilford steamrolled over Claude’s protest, “Better yet, make better use of yourself. Get me and my guest another serving of dessert. Wait in the kitchen until I phone for you.”

Silence hung in the air as you felt Claude’s stare burn into the back of your head.

Finishing off the last bit of dessert, Wilford gave her another pointed look as the spoon knocked against the glass bowl, “Kitchen, Claude.”

With every stomp echoing out the boxcar, you knew she was plotting your demise.

“I’m almost looking forward to retirement. Refereeing you two is a task in itself.”

“Sorry, Wilford.”

“Nevermind about that, just remember our deal.”

“Always, sir.”

“You never did ask what he looks like,” Wilford stated.

You quirked an eyebrow, “Who?”

“Curtis, Mrs. Everett.” Wilford supplied with a wink.

“Loyalty’s blind. It doesn’t matter, I’ll do what you asked.”

“Hmm, love is also blind, dear girl,” Wilford pulled a piece of paper out from his coat pocket and slid it across the table. “Had this sketched for you, but details aren’t the best with it being done over the broadcast screen. Meet your husband.”

Unfolding the paper, you held no expectations. Hope was a stranger in a make-believe land at this point. But your hands stilled at attempting to flatten the page’s creases as you looked down at a pair of fierce, cutting eyes.

So this was Curtis Everett. The artist drew him in several different poses. Some standing and talking, while in other sketches he was sitting and silently watching. Each piece displayed an attractive man with an air of determination and raw intensity. Albeit a bit broken.

Nodding a thank you to Wilford, you refolded the sketches and placed them in your lap.

~~~

As Curtis began his venture to the head of the train, you and six uniquely different women were gathered in a designated boxcar to wait and see if the Curtis Revolution proved to be successful.

“You’ll remain here until further notice,” Claude informed the women in her care. “Don’t think about leaving. If something happens to you, you’re on your own.” Claude held her gaze on you specifically with that last part. “Wilford had the seamstress supply fancier dresses, pick one from the racks to wear later if things progress. Here are your numbers, pin them on yourself when the time comes. We’ll need to differentiate you somehow.”

“Because names wouldn’t help with that?” you asked dryly.

“Be quiet,” Claude hissed back.

Number Six squeezed her paper namesake with excitement, “Oh, new clothes. Magnifique! Look at how luxurious those evening gowns are. Oh, so dreamy! It’ll be like we’re on the red carpet for an awards show.”

You looked at Six in disbelief, how were you supposed to survive being cramped in this small room with people like her?

Hurry up, Curtis. Win or lose- make it quick.

“Red carpet?” asked number Three, the only train baby of the group.

“Be quiet, I don’t have time for stupid questions and even dumber people,” said Claude.

“Always so pleasant to be around you, Claude.”

“Shut up,” she sneered back at you as the other ladies silently slipped away.

You weren’t sure if the other women ignored your exchange with Claude because everyone was familiar to the open hostility between you two, or if they simply weren’t interested in anything that didn’t concern them directly. With the upper class mentality, you assumed it was the latter.

Blowing a kiss at Claude, you picked up one of the books that were put out beside the drinks and cheese tray.

Everything you’ve known for the last seventeen years hung in the balance, and the six other ladies didn’t have a single fret line across their foreheads. Here you were, waiting to see what the train’s fate might be and the others couldn’t tear themselves away from the servings of special occasion Gouda. Perhaps you weren’t much better, you thought as you ran your hand along the book’s embossed hardcover.

Boiling at the air kiss you threw, Claude cut through the racks of delivered dresses. Kicking an extra box of high heels out of her way, she ripped the book out of your hand.

“My, my, Claude. I see you’ve been working out. Manhandling baby-sized parts really improved your strength,” you antagonized while sitting down and crossing your legs.

Openly laughing at Claude’s temper only set her anger off more as she spat out her next words, “You’re a fucking bitch. I can’t wait to see him fail. When he doesn’t make it, you’ll be left behind right where you are. A discarded napkin on top a dirty pile of dinner plates. Stuck to remain a polite poisoner until you’re ended.”

Mocking your earlier words to her, she smirked at you for what she deemed a clever line. With your nose in the air, you blatantly eyed her from head to toe without responding. You slowly uncrossed your legs and gracefully leaned forward, a look of predatory smugness to your features when you saw her tense up. Suddenly, you snatched the book back out of her hands. Keeping your eyes locked on her, you opened the book and cracked the book spine into submission. Slowly, steadily you raised the book from your lap until it fully covered your chin, then your nose, and then your eyes from her view.

Behind the book’s binding you called out, “Claude, why do you continue to test me when you’re fully aware of how potent my poisons can be- and how well I can mix them into your meals? Don’t make me poison you at your next tea party.”

Claude was about to deliver a counter-threat when the phone hidden behind the wall seal rang. You both knew Wilford was watching, he always was.

“Ah, that ringing bell would be for you, dear Claude. Try not to slip on your saliva when you run to answer your master’s call, little dog,” you teased behind a copy of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

As Claude left, you listened to the other women gossip around the snack table. Wilford enjoyed keeping certain cards to his chest and your competition was a hand he didn’t want to show entirely. He said you’d be Curtis’ pick, so why give away unimportant details?

But you liked to be more practical. Knowing details, even little ones, helped you aim for the artery when plotting.

As they conferenced around the snack platter, you overheard why they agreed to participate in Wilford’s selection game and become a tail end-er’s wife. Some needed to repay their family’s debts or their own, others wanted to climb up in rank and gain as much power as possible. A shared answered was wanting a change of scenery on this limited-option train.

They were all lovely women in their own right. If Curtis ran the gauntlet successfully, he’d be rewarded with choosing one of you seven, shiny-eyed brides-to-be.

But as you looked over the options, you couldn’t help but think that your train deserved better. Especially since their only concern at the moment was to consume more Gouda.

The sounds of guards rushing down the aisle of the waiting car snapped you out of your dairy assessment. There was a part of you hoping Curtis would be successful. A small side tempted by the curiosity of what it meant to have a new conductor responsible for the sacred engine. But you were more worried on how a new conductor might not have the same vision as Wilford.

Wilford assured you Curtis would view the world as he did. Wilford believed Curtis to be his successor. So you reminded yourself: Trust in Wilford, so you can trust in Curtis.

But with your curiosity peeked, you left the room of selected women to check-in with the closest guard post. Frowning when you found the post empty, you were about to return to the waiting room when the monitor screen caught your eye. Figures on the grainy monitors showed guards wearing tactical attire as the train barreled to the bridge and into a new year. Masks covered their faces, minimizing human features so their anonymity would be more threatening.

The broadcast feed was not the best quality but you saw a tall man in the middle of the rebel pack on the other monitor. He matched Wilford’s sketch. The size of the group by him was much larger than you expected. Knowing the outcomes of the earlier revolts and rebellions, you thought this revolution would be another failure. Even with those determined, intense eyes of his. Internally scoffing at the idea you would become a widow before you were even married.

Honestly, despite Wilford’s backup plan for Curtis, you didn’t actually think it’d be possible for a tail end-er to make it this far. But there on the screen showed a massive number of rebels. How many more backend boarders were there?

Even with soil and blood-encrusted on him, the man was an attractive leader. You couldn’t help to grin slightly at the feral look plastered across Curtis’ face. Perhaps you had more in common with the third-class revolutionist than you realized.

Leaning into the screen as the attack played out, your breath fogged the monitor as you watched Curtis decide between obtaining his goal to capture Mason or save a fellow man. At the end of the slaughtering and witnessing Curtis’ choice of fatality, you were content with your agreement to Wilford’s chess game of marriage.

Turning away from the monitors, you slipped back into the waiting room to enjoy some Gouda.

Time seemed to pass slowly until Claude dropped off another tray of fruit and ordered everyone to get ready immediately, “Don’t leave this room. It’s too late to stop what’s happened, and now it’s your turn to help the train. I’ll be back shortly to lead you to the selection.”

The sound of the door closing behind her was like a gun sounding the start of a race. Six ladies frantically ran around the room crashing into one another, ripping garments off hangers and knocking items on the ground.

Rolling your eyes at the costume change commotion, you slipped out the door in hopes to eavesdrop on Wilford. After seeing Curtis on the monitor, you fantasized how or if he would accept his new role. Would he be curious and interested in the idea of being able to select a wife, or would he decline it?

---

“’…hold a woman with both arms…*’” Wilford jested.

Curtis looked so broken, nerves and bones exposed. The look of pain filling his eyes and the wordless shock of betrayal and disbelief across his face was not how you pictured this moment for him. Well, you pictured there would be shock, but not this level of absolute destruction.

Something happened to you then as you absentmindedly rubbed your breastbone, a dull ache starting to grow. This man, who was glorious and furious only a short time ago, now looked lost and lifeless. The dull pain continued along your bone and you could almost ignore the pain until he looked over at the wall you were spying behind. It felt like he knew you were there, pinning you in place with his agony as your own discomfort bloomed in your chest. The longer his eyes were in your direction, the more your chest hurt.

But that was crazy, you thought, of course he couldn’t see you. None of them knew you were there listening. Turning away from the hiding spot, you continued to rub your sternum as you made the way back to the ladies.

Reentering the room and seeing the group of potential wives was surreal; how the state of him and his clothes compared to the state of this self-indulgent mock harem. You knew Curtis’ story from Wilford’s files and the small-time you saw his takeover on screen. But to see the vast difference and pain of someone you might align yourself with while they stood before your own eyes- that was somewhat stomach-churning. Even for you.

Normally, you would capitalize on weakness. But Curtis’ pain had the opposite effect on you. Instead of the urge to squeeze, you wanted to hold.

Sitting down before the vanity, you observed the girls behind you in the mirror. Only two looked anxious about the upcoming selection. The other numbers looked like they were having an afternoon away, a short reprieve from the pressures of planning a charity fundraiser.

Number four looked high, kronole you suspected. Thank goodness she was wearing slip-ons. The state she was in you weren’t sure if she’d able to tie her own laces.

Looking at the candidates and remembering Curtis’ grief, your chest dully ached again. For a moment, you thought perhaps the two anxious girls understood the weight of the situation. But the longer everyone stayed in the waiting room, the more you overheard that their nervous whispers were only reservations in having to be in close quarters with a tail end-er.

None of these “I’ll write you a check” girls would do. They wouldn’t last against how feral and pained Curtis seemed. The train wouldn’t benefit with any of them by his side.

You clutched the lipstick case tighter in your hands as your thoughts swirled- none of these lunching ladies could steer Curtis the way the sacred engine deserved.

Despite Wilford’s promise of the selection being in your favor, seeing what Curtis could possibly select instead filled you with enormous dread for the train’s future. These women’s lack of ability and influence over Curtis would never do. They wouldn’t be able to protect him, wouldn’t be able to keep order on the train; Wilford’s vision would flatline.

You were not going to let one of these girls take your place with Curtis and squander the responsibility to keep the train stable. If Wilford believed there was something special about Curtis- that was enough for you to believe, too.

Looking over the inadequate girls, you selected Curtis for yourself.

Wilford reassured you were already Curtis’ type through Gilliam’s late-night chats and catching Curtis’ eye would easy, but you knew holding Curtis’ attention was another matter entirely. A man covered in filth day-in and day-out with limited choices and harsh conditions. You couldn’t imagine how overwhelming everything new must be to him. How everything shiny couldn’t be trusted.

Squinting at your appearance in the mirror, you pondered and planned. Reevaluating the competition, you examined yourself- clothes pressed, hair styled, makeup freshly painted- just like them.

Dropping your lipstick, you wiped your lips harshly and removed your eye makeup. Wetting a towel you wiped your neck, freeing your skin from the perfume. Fresh and clean-faced, you were slightly different than the other artistically painted ladies. Perhaps more approachable? You changed into the most modest evening gown you could find.

Claude opened the door and called for the seven of you to line up.

Taking the fifth spot in line, you waited for her next instructions. Claude surveyed over the seven offerings she was about to bring Wilford and stopped when seeing you. Running her eyes over you, she pursed her lips together.

Spinning on her heels, she called out while leaving the room, “Follow me, hurry up.”

~~~

When you floated in single file into the boxcar and lined up before Wilford, Curtis noticed you immediately. Weak from the fight, or from seeing you- a reminder of a life before the snow and ice, he stumbled slightly when stepping forward. You embodied the type of woman he fantasized about before CW-7 wiped out the world. And he began to feel an attraction he didn’t think he’d feel again.

As he walked closer to the numbered selection, Curtis stopped in front and looked each woman in the eye to see how they’d react to a lowly, dirty, tail end-er. A tail end-er who was now demanding respect. Counting the beats, he stared them down and waited to see if their movements gave way to any hints of judgment.

Option One seemed to be uncomfortable in her own skin, nervously rubbing the long sleeves of her dress. Was she nervous about the situation or him? Regardless, she wouldn’t do.

Number two was not his type, although she did hold her head high and make eye contact with him for the full time. Perhaps she’d be a civil option.

Three’s nostrils flared as soon as Curtis leaned into her view. Eliminated.

Four, well, he wasn’t sure if Four even knew what day it was, let alone where or why she was here. Discounted.

Five, Curtis tried to remind himself not to show how he already favored you from across the boxcar. Because up close, he wasn’t sure he could remain stoic in front of you for long. An odd feeling of being lost and found was stirring around his gut at the moment.

This foreign, mixed feeling made Curtis frown slightly before he was able to school his features. Seeing Curtis’ frowned reaction to you, Wilford made a small step forward towards the lineup. His own worry slightly showing before he was able to place back his mask for benevolent indifference. Claude gripped the gun in her pocket tighter, gleeful that you might fail Wilford and not gain a higher position.

Curtis never had any use for poetry but here you were right in front of him, something so incredibly unattainable that was now so easily in his grasp. The accessibility to having you made him unsure of himself. He was drawn to you when you entered the room, but having you so close, he knew he’d choose you. Fresh-faced and different from the others, you quirked an eyebrow and tilted your head slightly at him as if you ask, “yes?”

Curtis bit the inside of his cheek, trying to ground himself and not give away his interest. As he did with the earlier numbers, he crowded into your personal space and stared, hard.

His mistake, because that was the instant a voice whispered in his head, mine.

That forgotten feeling of sexual possessiveness slowly started infecting Curtis. At least that was how he related this estranged desire, an infection. A limb waking after being denied blood flow for too long, pins and needles racing across his skin. A drop in the middle of a pond, causing ripples to fold out to opposite sides of the banks. Seeing you from afar and now smelling your light, teasing scent sent a sensation of twists and turns to his stomach making him light-headed and his cock twitch.

He became lost in the thought of you laying next to him. Your lips bruised from kissing and your scent on his clothes as he’d tell you to dip your hands inside your panties for him. He’d praise you as you’d moan next him, watching you pleasure yourself.

You were drawing Curtis in deeper into the web of the sacred, eternal engine. And Wilford looked on you both like a proud matchmaker and smug creator.

Stepping away from you reluctantly, Curtis moved to number Six and looked her in the eyes as well. From the corner of his vision, he watched your reaction as he brought his hand up to fix the strap of Six’s dress. Uninterested in Six’s hitch in breath, he concentrated on how you kept yourself facing straight ahead but narrowing your eyes in annoyance. Satisfied on seeing a reaction from you when he touched another, he moved to number Seven and repeated his action by fixing her shawl.

Turning away from Seven, Curtis never looked back at you or the other candidates. Instead, he made his way to the chair he sat in before you entered.

After Claude escorted your group back into the waiting car, Wilford sat down across from Curtis and pulled out seven numbered files, “I’ll let you review.”

“Five,” Curtis stated without touching any of the folders.

Nodding at Curtis’ choice, Wilford fixed the lapels of his robe and leaned forward to rest his clasped hands on top of the desk. “Excellent choice, dear boy. But in the sense of honor and one passing the so-called baton, you’ll need to know your soon-to-be wife’s job aboard our, well, your sacred engine.”

Wilford watched Curtis’ reactions closely as he explained how you helped maintain order and delivered a well-mannered serving of absolute punishment to any upper class rule breakers.

Wilford spoke poetically; Curtis listened intensely.

“I’ll give you a moment to think it over. But remember what I said, it is a marriage. The contract between you both will be followed because we need structure, social form. There’s an image to uphold. Once you select who you want, that’s it. They’ve all agreed to this.”

“So why did she?” Curtis asked before he could think better not to.

Wilford knew this question had been bouncing around in Curt’s busy little head for a while, “She enjoys her job and she enjoys your train. She knows how people are.”

“She likes to murder and punish.”

Wilford tsked and rolled his eyes, “Stop being dramatic, Curtis. She enjoys order and knows responsibilities. She is a good person to have on your side, especially in our high position of power.”

“So you want me to use her as protection?”

“She is structure. Besides, you can’t deny she’s more than easy on the eyes. More importantly, dear boy, she’s someone you can trust. And it’s sad to see you without anyone to trust nowadays.”

Curtis cut a sharp glare at Wilford, “And who the hell played me the whole way?!”

Sighing noisily, Wilford rose from the table and came around to Curtis’ chair.

“I understand you’re upset about Gilliam. But she didn’t have anything to do with his choices. If anything, choose something in the opposite direction of what I’m offering then. Number Four seems like an easy girl to mold,” Wilford patted Curtis’ shoulder ready to leave and allow him some time to think alone. “Is number Four the type you want to be saddled with? Do you have enough kronole?”

Curtis ignored Wilford’s baiting question as he read your file history and achievements. “Why is she the executioner?”

“'It’s easier for someone to survive on this train, if they have some level of insanity,*’” Wilford shrugged casually.

Curtis frowned slightly at that understandable line, absentmindedly rubbing the scar on his arm.

“Think it over, Curtis. You two would be amazing together. You went with your gut and made it to the front end. You went with your gut and picked the best girl out of the seven. Make the best choice for yourself and your sacred engine. Would you like some water while you decide?”

Curtis ignored Wilford’s question. He looked at your old photo from when you boarded and a more recent sketch of you now. Running a dirty finger across your detailed sketch, his cock twitched in his pants again as he traced your painted lips.

Wilford set the tall glass of water down in front of Curtis, and with a flare that only Wilford possessed, dropped a single ice cube in the drink.

“Are you fucking serious?” Curtis growled after seeing a bullet frozen in the cube.

“Take your time to think it over. Read the note. The choice is yours, my dear boy. I’ll be back after it melts.”

The door closed behind Wilford and Curtis’ breath hitched in his chest.

Alone, quiet.

Curtis tried to compose himself in the eerie solitude. When locked in the tail section, he prayed for solitary confinement. A moment of silence. Now alone, he wasn’t sure what was worse.

Curtis raised the water glass up to the light and watched the prism paint the walls, choking out an uncomfortable laugh deep within. Gulping down the water, he spat the ice cube into his palm. Dirt began to run and channel along the lines of his palm.

Having enough of Wilford’s games, Curtis threw the ice cube on the floor and stomped on it.

He twisted the bullet casing apart and stilled his hands for a moment before unrolling the note to read the message.

Blank.

Asshole.

Curtis looked over at Wilford as he came back into the room. He didn’t say anything about the blank message, determined not to give him any more entertainment.

“Number Five,” Curtis stated, pushing the closed folder back across the table. Your pictures safely tucked inside his pocket.

“Excellent! Wise choice. Wait here and I’ll call Claude to show you to your new living quarters, there’s a private bath and a large bed for the soon-to-be-married couple. You’ll find out soon enough, but your soon-to-be misses and Claude aren’t the best-,” Wilford chuckled at the memories. “-Well, you’ll find out that detail out for yourself. What’s the fun in hearing everything secondhand?”

Curtis ran his hands over his face, not sure what to make of all that’s happened within these last days aboard the eternal engine.

Wilford snapped his fingers, making a show as if he forgot something and patting the pockets of his robe, “A piece of marital advice, dear boy. Your soon-to-be wife is more clever at making you feel welcomed than you know.”

Wilford pulled a tube of lipstick out of his pocket and rolled it across the desk. Curtis eyed the cylinder, trying to understand what Wilford was hinting at.

And then he knew.

Your sketch burning a hole in his pocket with your painted lips. Tapping the end of the lipstick on the table, it was that small detail he favored about you over the others. You were the only fresh-faced lady in the bunch.

---

The soft, classical music became a white noise as you looked out the dining car window and allowed yourself to relax. White noise, whiter scenery.

Dabbing the crisp linen napkin to the corner of your soft mouth, you arched a sleek eyebrow in anticipation.

Across the table, the slumped body finally lost to gravity and fell hard against the lace tablecloth as the train jostled and creaked itself out of a turn. The heavy weight of the fresh corpse shook the table causing a melody to play out on the fine China, vibrating a song of disturbance.

Huffing softly at your former dinner companion’s poor manners for falling face-first into his plate, you placed your hands on the table to settle the dinnerware’s rattling tantrum. Taking in the accomplished sight of your fresh kill, you gracefully held the teacup and saucer and brought the warm liquid up to the cold smirk on your lips.

Before settling back into the plush chair, you grabbed a cookie and closed your eyes to enjoy a moment of unsupervised silence.

“What did I tell you the last time you asked to do this?”

Shit.

Opening your eyes, you saw Curtis slide the dining car door close behind him, locking both doors on the keypad. His boots echoing loudly with each step as his eyes pinned you in place. His barely concealed anger immediately caused irritation to run down your spine.

“I don’t recall, please be more specific,” you couldn’t help but douse your words in annoyance before taking another sip of tea.

Why did he have to visit the dining car so soon? He was supposed to be having meetings with the security and maintenance departments. Swirling the remnants of tea, you couldn’t help but feel cheated that Curtis walked in and stole a bit of your alone time away.

The more you thought about the peace and quiet now lost, you rolled your eyes in the direction of the slowly chilling body across from you. Why did he always have to ask questions to obvious answers? Anyone would have known what you were doing here, the dead body gave it away for christ's sake. There was not much to deduce. He had always known what your tastes were like when he selected you- that was part of the deal. So for him to keep stifling your gifts over the last several weeks had become unacceptable. Looking over at the dead man’s ruffled hair you couldn’t help but snicker how things finally came to a head, so to speak.

Curtis narrowed his eyes at the sound of your soft laughter, “Watch yourself.”

Keeping in a sigh of vexation, you placed down your teacup and crossed your arms over your chest. Maybe if you restrained yourself, you could keep the displeasure you felt with Curtis about his lack of action concerning the poisoned body in front of you.

And then the thought dawned on you, “Seems your meetings ended earlier than I anticipated.”

Curtis shook his head at your blasé attitude of being caught doing something he specifically told you not to do.

“So sorry to interrupt your time with such a wonderful conversationalist,” he mocked, waving a disinterested hand at the body, “Things worked out better than you anticipated?”

“No, not as well as I anticipated,” you added back, giving him a pointed look. “Obviously didn’t have enough time to move the body before you found me.”

“I’ll always find you what you’re doing, you’re mine. My responsibility,” Curtis stated seriously.

Before you had time to enjoy the way his claim warmed you, he moved on and mentioned how Claude was currently overseeing the maintenance meeting.

You realized then Claude must have known what you had planned for your dead dinner guest, Vardo, and squealed to Curtis.

Seizing a bread roll from the basket, you roughly tore off a chunk between your sharp teeth. The longer you pictured Claude’s face, the harder you chewed. Your resentment for the woman mixed itself in with the taste of butter and sesame.

Claude liked to be an accessory to anyone with power. She only remained loyal to a person with sturdy purse strings, climbing the social ladder within the front end until she was able to get close enough to catch Wilford’s eye. You remembered how Wilford’s open position for a parts measurer was between her and another woman, Livia. Claude received the promotion and Livia avoided everyone for the next two weeks.

Shy and quiet, Livia didn’t speak a lot. Which seemed like a winning trait for someone who would measure humans to fill the role of replacement parts to the grand machine. But the reality of how the train was able to still run after these long 17 years was too much for Livia.

Upon finding out, she suffered hysterics and refuse to eat; crying for hours and mumbling incoherently about locks and gears, tumblers and bolts, little bodies and broken bones. Wilford was becoming increasingly agitated that her outbursts might happen in public and upset others. He said something needed to be done to ensure the grand secret of the sacred engine would not be revealed. During all this, Claude was increasingly delighted how Livia’s breakdown worsened each day.

Before the end of the second week and with Wilford’s concerns in mind, you convinced Livia to visit the club car and have a girls night with you. In between dancing, she told you how Claude was leaving notes with measurements and little tools on the food trays she brought to Livia’s room. Becoming so upset, she wouldn’t be able to eat. Even high on kronole, she didn’t give away details of what she saw or had to do during the job interview.

But her fate was all too late.

She mumbled once too much wine, “Never sanitize soul, not clean.”

Frowning at her jumbled words, you poured her more wine, “You’ll find peace soon, dear girl.”

The poison took her mercifully quick.

The bread roll circled and wobbled around your plate after you tossed it aside. You would never allow Claude to get too close to Curtis. You did care for Curtis, probably more than you were comfortable to admit. Besides, there was limited space for suggestions in Curtis’ head. Your voice held residency along with Wilford’s, and even Gilliam’s, words. You weren’t about to give any elbow room for Claude to whisper ideas to Curtis also.

When the train first started its maiden voyage, you tried to remain civil to Claude but she always gave off an air of unearned self-righteousness. And after what Livia told you, civility was barely hanging on.

Growling at your stubbornness, Curtis came closer to your side of the table. “I told you to give me time. Trust me like you trusted in Wilford. I would have given you what wanted soon enough.”

The memory of Livia still fresh in your mind, you snapped back at him, “Loyalty is what you were promised, but I don’t owe you patience or trust.”

Curtis narrowed his eyes at your attitude. He knew he overindulged your unique desires, but disrespect was something he would not allow. “Knock it off, dear wife. Act like a loving spouse and not a mediocre black widow.”

“Mediocre,” you scoffed at his comparison, “I could knock you off, you know. But what good would that do me, Curtis? I’m not sure I have enough poison for everyone on this train. At the moment.”

“You’re acting like a damn brat,” he muttered, annoyed and bitter at the thought you were still only with him for protection.

“I’m not the one continually breaking promises and then asking for the other spouse to keep believing in them,” you countered back, stomping your feet under the table and crossing your arms over your chest again.

“What, did Claude scurry over to you and rat me out?” You slapped your hands on the table and pitched your voice nasally high to mock, “'Oh, I’ll help you great and powerful ruler. I’ll run the meetings for you.‘”

Sneering at what you imagined Claude’s words might have been to him.

“I took out the garbage for you, Curtis. Vardo’s rumors would have hurt you. You could thank me instead of reprimanding me on how you didn’t sign off on this.”

You truly were a murderous brat.

Most passengers didn’t bother to recognize or question that the shiny new conductor next to you was also the dirty blood-covered rebel monster, who smashed through their glasshouse.

Truthfully, most didn’t care as long as their food was warm and their shit was flushed. Some believed so much in Wilford’s vision, they’d never question Wilford’s prophetic news that Curtis was their new conductor.

But some others did want to question. However, they knew better than to ask; except one, your dead dinner companion, Vardo.

Most believed the revolution was squashed and the rebels snuffed out. That the rebellious end-ers were tagged and placed back in their cages.

So when your freshly deceased guest started making inappropriate advances and asking too many questions at too many tables, you invited him to sup at yours.

Because if there was something you knew how to do, it was to tie up loose ends with a soft smile and a kind offer of something to drink. Every time you asked Curtis if you could take Vardo out for dinner, he would only reply- 'Soon.’

You finally got tired of waiting for Curtis’ permission and listening to Vardo’s rumors about the lack of skills the new conductor possessed.

And Curtis’ current lack of thankfulness towards you was pissing you off, “If you want out of the marriage, let me know.”

Curtis frowned at your obscene words, “What are you fucking talking about?”

“I’m not ignorant or daydreamy, Curtis. I know everyone on this train has a purpose and when that purpose or if room runs out, so will my usefulness. Besides, I’m already a shit listener if that dead weight across the table counts for anything. Maybe what I offer isn’t purposeful enough? Maybe we run out of room on the train again and I don’t make it past the cutoff number? Sure I could be safe if the number was 73% like last time. But there’s so many hypothetical questions. Wait, what was that deduction percent again?”

“74.” Curtis answered without a thought but then immediately looked harder at you.

Smirking slightly you carried on, “Ah yes, that’s correct. 74%. See, there wouldn’t be enough room for me. And the inevitable would happen again for Wilford’s wish of order to remain.”

Curtis’ jaw shifted at your words, he knew you were damn well aware the number was 74%. You were always off to prove a fucking point, but he wasn’t about to entertain the idea of you not being by his side. The notion that you could be separated from him brought a jab to his stomach he wouldn’t ignore.

He was owed this companionship, he was owed you.

He owned you.

He knew there was more to you that day during the selection. No hesitation or disdain when he leaned into your proximity. The silent challenge you gave him. There was something behind your expression, something he was still curious about exploring.

When Wilford revealed to him what your role was on the train, Curtis knew he found the connection, a shared portion of darkness. You offered a safe harbor to him for what he had done in the past and an understanding of what he’d have to do in the future.

He swore he wouldn’t lose you to any conflict- mathematical, mechanical, or man.

Curtis called your name as he calmly stacked the dishes in front of you and moved them aside.

He looked too calm to you, especially after walking in on you with a dead body. His features were cool as he nodded for you to give him the teacup sitting out of his reach.

As he continued to pile the dishes down the table towards Vardo’s body, you remembered how well acquainted Curtis was with death. Surviving all those years in the end section and massacring his way up to the front, one mere non-bloodied body wouldn’t give him much pause. It was you not waiting for his permission concerning the execution that soured his mood.

“I want an answer. Why did you do this, when I denied you my approval?”

“There was nothing to approve, I didn’t ask for your consent… this time,” you grumbled softly with admission.

“Oh, I know that dear wife,” he clicked his tongue at your retort. “You’ve been a goddamn worm in my ear about him for weeks but suddenly go radio silent about him? I knew you were up to something.”

“How did you even know I was here working?”

“A few things. The first, Claude mentioned you were having an intimate dinner with someone who wasn’t your husband.”

“Busy-bodied bitch,” you mumbled. “Hardly intimate. As you can see, it was work.”

Leaning forward and removing a sugar cube from the bowl, you tossed it at your dead dinner guest.

Watching it land down the back of his collar, you continued, “It’s been riveting conversation, too. What were the other few things?”

“She isn’t the only busy body here. Don’t waste food,” Curtis picked the sugar cube out of the man’s collar and tossed it in the air, catching it in his mouth.

“It looks like it was plenty intimate to him,” Curtis kicked Vardo’s chair leg with his heavy boot. “Asshole’s sporting a fucking death erection.”

“What?” Sliding your gaze under the table, you saw Vardo’s pants tented. “Pft. That’s just the poison, not the conversation.”

“I still don’t fucking like it, y/n.” Curtis stated darkly.

You shifted in the chair suddenly uncomfortable on where this conversation may lead, especially with the tone he just used. Recalling what he said shortly ago, you tried to move on, “What did you mean about Claude not being the only busy body?”

“I find it surprising you have to ask that, especially when you’re so busy keeping such thorough records of everyone’s conduct.”

Surprised by his discovery, you tried to figure out when he may have found your notebooks. You knew you never mentioned the records you kept concerning the passengers to him, the scorecards on who should receive punishment when they tallied up too many transgressions.

“Wilford told me. Relax, I can hear the gears moving in your head so loudly, they’re drowning out the sound of the train’s.”

“...Why did he?”

“You already know how Wilford explained what your job was to me before I was allowed to pick you. But he told me other things I didn’t mention to you. He said you’d record events, a little homicide journaling. He described it as a dear death diary on why you wanted someone removed. But more fucking importantly, dear wife- he said you always ran punishments by him before carrying them out. But this one, you didn’t run by me.”

Not yet ready for Curtis to know how sincerely you cared for him, you opted for a vague reply, “This was because of personal reasons.”

“Yes, murders usually happen due to those.”

Huffing at his dry reply, you couldn’t help but feel exposed after hearing Curtis read your records. “When did you find them?”

“Two months ago, after Wilford’s death,” he smirked down at you. “I can keep secretes, too. Glad you finally did Vardo in. Took you long enough though.”

“What?” Your head snapped up from shock.

“I read about the inappropriate comments he made to the men and women in the working section. How he made similar comments to you. How they were increasing, making others more uncomfortable. I was pissed to read the fucking things he said to you, but even more when you didn’t come to your husband and say what was happening.”

“Nothing happened, this was work. Trash removal.”

“Oh, I know that dear wife,” Curtis ran his finger down the column of your neck and over your shoulder.

You could feel yourself respond to his touch, goosebumps and tingles.

Curtis leaned into the shell of your ear as he confessed against your skin, “I made sure to encourage him.”

Breaking out of the soft lull his touch put you in, you slapped his hand away and stood. “What are talking about, encouraging? What did you do?”

“I encouraged Vardo to pursue you. Told him to spread the rumors and concerns about me. Told him if he was able to get my wife to cheat on me and expose your lack of loyalty, I’d reward him for exposing the snake in the garden,” Curtis stepped in closer to you, moving his hand back to your neck and tracing the length of your soft throat with this thumb, “He was the snake. Not you, never you.”

You couldn’t believe what Curtis was admitting. “Why would you do that? I haven’t given you any reason to think I’d break my marital agreement to you, Curtis.”

“Not for that reason.”

“Then what reason?!”

“A wedding present.”

“What.”

“You enjoy doing what you do, so I let you, dear wife. Everything you do, I let you do. I read how little you could stand him. Anyone could tell how much you disliked Vardo, except Vardo.” Curtis watched your shock take over as you tried to process everything. “Vardo was stupid. Stupid enough to think he’d gain anything by going after us. After you. I told him to spread the rumors, prove to me how my dear wife wasn’t faithful. He objected, in the beginning, believed it was a trap. But when I offered him the chance to sleep with you- he agreed greedily.”

“…You set him up to see if he would sleep with me?”

“No, sweetheart. I set you up... to see how loyal you’d be to me.”

Snarling at his words, you smacked his hold on you, “Aren’t you just fucking splitting hairs, husband?”

Moving his hand tighter around your neck, you felt his thumb press into your windpipe. “Mind that bratty attitude. Vardo was fucking stupid, not knowing how tail end-ers are possessive. No one gets to covet my wife.”

As he pushed his thumb harder in your skin, you dipped your head back to gain a breath to speak, “You orchestrated all this?”

“You’re welcome,” Curtis lifted his thumb, relieving the pressure on your windpipe as he dropped his lips to your clavicle.

His touch and confession slammed into your core. Gasping at the feel of his lips, your hands wrapped around his wrists, squeezing them to encourage him to keep the pressure on your throat. Lowly moaning when he did.

Curtis knocked his knee between your legs and grazed your center with his thigh. Moving his thigh back and forth against your clothed clit, you bit your lip when you heard him say, “Rub.”

Rolling your hips against him, Curtis chuckled at your pleasure.

“Good girl.”

He dipped you back against the table as he sucked your neck harder between little sharp bites and kisses, “How wet are you, sweetheart? Grinding that pretty pussy against my thigh. I want to see how desperate you are.”

Your hips jolted up, lost in the smooth and steady twisting of his words.

“Fuck,” you gasped out.

Freeing a hand from your neck, Curtis ran his touch down along your body. Sliding his hand under your skirt, he bunched the material up your hips and licked his lips when he saw the large wet spot on your panties. Moving the damp material aside, he grazed his finger along your slick folds.

Your breath hitched at the contact and the darkness in his eyes.

Curtis teasingly twirled his fingers around your inner thighs, lightly circling your clit. “Can you purr?”

Not waiting for an answer, Curtis kissed you and dipped a finger into your pussy.

He bit your lip and hungrily moved to swirl his tongue over yours. Everything was vibrating in you, a fight of dominance and battle for acceptance.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let some of that tension go,” he encouraged, sliding a second finger into you.

Your resistance weakening, the grazing of his thumb circling your clit- you wanted to melt for him.

Bringing a leg up off the table, you hooked it around his waist and mewled at the sensations he was creating in you by the furious rate his fingers worked you.

Curtis began to slowly scissor you, only pausing his kisses to see your reaction better, “Fuck. You’re so beautiful. That’s it, sweetheart, squeeze my fucking fingers.”

“Please,” you whimpered, extending your other leg out as you tried to gain more friction.

He held your hips down against the table, “Look at you, so beautiful and wet. All fucking mine. My fucking reward.”

“I’m going to cum,” you squeezed the words out past your lips as your walls tightened around Curtis’ fingers.

“No, you’re not. Not yet.” Pulling his fingers away from your pussy, Curtis chuckled deeply at your forlorn expression. “I want to be inside you when you do.”

Bringing his wet fingers up to his mouth, he groaned in pleasure from the taste of you before pulling you off the table.

Kissing you possessively, Curtis’ tongue willed for access to your mouth again. You could taste yourself as you feverishly returned his kiss.

Without warning, he turned you around and bent you over the table. Your stomach seizing from the cold surface while your ass was fully on display in the air.

Yelping in surprise you felt Curtis kick your legs farther apart. Stepping between your soft thighs, Curtis grabbed your legs off the floor as your torso warmed the table underneath your skin. You heard him free himself from his pants and groan deeply.

He ran his hands up and down your legs unable to touch enough of you as he moved your knees back. Praising and kneading your ass cheeks, your heels hovered over your bottom as Curtis locked your folded legs underneath each of his arms. You felt his tip run along your slit, the head of his cock parting your wet lips. Grabbing your hips and with one strong thrust without warning, Curtis buried himself into you.

The table shook with every claiming thrust as Vardo’s body rocked against the fine china on the other side of the table. Curtis pinned his eyes on the corpse before dropping his gaze on your back.

Curtis railed into you harder, “Say you’re mine.”

Moaning at his command and losing yourself in him, you only whimpered in reply. You never felt like this before. You moved your hand behind yourself, trying to feel his hips, his hands, anything.

“No.” Curtis grabbed your blindly-reaching hand and covered his over yours, bring them down on the table. Locking you in place again, his stomach brushed against your back. The sounds of his balls slapping against you echoed throughout the dining car. Perched over you with more leverage, Curtis moved faster in and out of your tight cunt.

“Say it,” another snap of his hips, another long hard drag of his cock along your pussy. “Fucking say you’re mine!”

“Yours,” you finally panted out, your face flattened against the tablecloth that was crumpled in your fists. “Always.”

Curtis almost lost himself when he felt you squeeze your walls around his cock, throwing his hard thrusting off.

“Cum for me, sweetheart. Cum right that fuck now. Fucking milk my cock.” His soft-toned, harsh words made you close your eyes as you screamed his name out in release.

Feeling your pussy tighten and flutter around his cock made Curtis bit his lip and drop your legs. Smacking his hands down on either side of your head, he encased your body with his grunts. All you could focus on when you opened your eyes were the muscles of his forearms flexing in your view as he rutted into you.

The sounds of Curtis fucking and using you to chase his release caused your body to tighten up again. Dropping his weight on top of your back, he snapped and slammed his hips into you. His primal moans set a ripple through you, your eyes rolling back as another orgasm took over causing your tight count to flutter around him again.

Growling out your name, he coated your walls, “Mine. You’re mine.”

Opening your eyes with sigh, you laughed softly at the window you and Curtis managed to fog up next to the table.

After catching his breath, Curtis propped his weight onto his forearms and kept himself within you. He wasn’t ready to pull out and let you go just yet.

The cool air hit your skin when slightly move off your back. Bowing down gently, Curtis kissed your sweaty shoulders making you shudder when he rocked against your sensitive core.

Basking in the aftermath of Curtis slowly softening within you, you realized how much you were willing to do to protect your husband. It was no longer just about the train.

“No more secrets between us. Understood, dear wife?”

“Understood, dear husband.”

“Good. It might be time to invite Claude for dinner,” Curtis said before kissing the back of your neck.

[shireness-says]

Wherever You’re Going (I’m Going Your Way) [5/6]

Summary: 1952. A lost boy without a home, Killian Jones rides America’s back roads on his motorcycle, searching for a purpose that’s just out of reach. This pit stop was only supposed to be a few days, a couple of weeks at most, but a pretty blonde waitress just might be his salvation. Is he brave enough to let her? Rated T for language. ~4.0K. Also on AO3. Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4

~~~~~

A/N: Last chapter of plot - next week is an epilogue. Thanks for reading - let me know what you think!

~~~~~

The days to come are a kind of blissful in-between: after the date and the kiss that changes everything, but before  Killian’s tires have arrived and he’s back on the road again. The days are simultaneously too short and wonderfully long, the days too few and yet seemingly endless as Killian savors every moment together that he can. He makes a point to spend as much time with Emma as he can, knowing that their time will be far too short, taking her for ice cream and evening strolls and even letting Emma drag him down to the local bar and dance hall. He’d tensed as she’d pulled him onto the dance floor, far too aware of the many eyes around him — he’s far too aware that others think he’s trouble, and can only imagine what they think to see him arm in arm with the local golden girl — but the other townsfolk never show it. He thinks he might even see a few smiles among them, though that seems like it could be too much to ask for. As happy as he is to take Emma on the kind of dates she deserves, dancing and the like, he truthfully takes just as much pleasure in simply keeping her company during her late shifts at the diner, sitting in what is now his usual booth and flashing a smile just for her. There’s a gentle intimacy to this, being allowed to watch Emma in her own environment.

Still. As much he tries to revel in the moment, the future looms just ahead. 

“I don’t know what to do, Belle,” Killian groans as softly as he can manage into the phone. Granny’s back hallway probably isn’t the best place for this conversation, but it begs having, and Killian isn’t willing to drive up David Nolan’s long distance bill. The downside of the public pay phone is that it’s not exactly private; other customers pass periodically, searching for the bathrooms or winding their way back through to the attached inn. It’s odd to even think, and Killian isn’t sure how it truly happened, but he seems to have earned some level of acceptance amongst the locals, just by virtue of becoming a regular face at the garage and at Granny’s in the last handful of weeks. Most even nod a greeting, or offer him a brief smile. It’s jarring, in the most pleasant way, to be met with a kind of amiable neutrality after growing so accustomed to distrust everywhere he goes. 

That’s the benefit of staying in one place, he supposes: people come to know you, even just a little bit, even just enough to grow used to you and start to trust you. Those could be the seeds of a more settled life, if he wanted.

But that’s the whole problem — Killian isn’t sure he’s ready for that. Which brings him to this moment and this phone call, because it’s been nearly three weeks, and they’re expecting the replacement tires any day now, and Killian has a decision to make. Three weeks ago, there’d been no question — he’d be gone as soon as the tools were put down. Three weeks ago, however, he hadn’t yet met Emma — and Emma just might change everything.

The truth of the matter is that these last days with Emma have been the happiest that he’s lived in a long, long time, and he likes to think he makes her happy too. Her smiles and laughter and the way she chases after him for just one more kiss would suggest that to be the case. They went into this with open eyes, both knowing that whatever they became was subject to a ticking clock, but Killian still pauses when he thinks of leaving her behind. She deserves more than that; they both do. 

At the same time, staying still isn’t an option. Killian’s great cross-country trek has, more than anything, been a search for a sense of self, a sense of purpose; finding someplace to call home is a far distant third on his list of concerns. Ghosts still haunt him, and though he knows the wind on his motorcycle can’t permanently blow them away, it helps. It’s nice to just not think for a few minutes. Even hours, if he’s lucky.

(Then again, kissing Emma achieves much the same effect, in a much more pleasurable fashion.)

“I can’t stay. I really… I don’t think I can stay,” Killian continues. “But how can I leave, either? What if I’m throwing away my one real chance to settle down, and be happy like that?”

“But is that really true happiness, convincing yourself into something because it’s the smart or honorable thing to do?” Belle asks. “Or is that just a compromise?”

Killian stays silent, letting her words run through his head. This is why he called Belle in the first place: she has a way of pointing out the real questions he needs to ask himself without any judgement or demands. 

“You don’t need to have an answer now, and you don’t have to tell me when you do,” Belle continues, “but if you’re as taken with this girl as you tell me, it’s not fair to her if you stick around but constantly dream of leaving again. She doesn’t deserve that.”

“No, she doesn’t.” Killian can hear the soft tenderness in his own voice; no doubt Belle can as well. “And that’s the biggest reason I can’t stay. She deserves more than a man who would always wonder what he gave up. It’s not just places I want to see either, Belle. It’s… at the risk of sounding like some terrible cliche, I’ve felt like a shell of myself for a long time. The words shouldn’t be me, but they were an important part, and I lost them. Flying down the highway, seeing all the wonders this blasted place has to offer… that’s the only time it feels like the words might be in my reach again. I deserve the chance to figure out who I am after all this, even as Emma doesn’t deserve a man who will otherwise always be a little bit empty.” Killian sighs. “That doesn’t make it any easier to think about leaving her behind.”

“You could always ask her to come with.”

Killian’s heart leaps in excitement at the very idea, but he quickly forces reason to tamp it down. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“Whyever not? I thought you said she had a bit of wanderlust herself.”

“Yes, but…” Killian struggles for an answer, feeling like his brain is tripping over itself. “Storybrooke is her home. She’s got a family here, people who love her and would miss her. I can’t take her away from all of that.”

“Maybe that’s a decision she gets to make,” Belle replies gently. “Maybe she’ll surprise you. Maybe she wants the same thing, a chance to see what else is out there. You won’t know unless you ask.”

“Maybe.” Even as Killian says it, he knows that it’s a dream too big. He’ll never risk it — and Belle probably knows that too.

“It’s up to you, Killian,” she concludes, “but think about what’s best for you, now and later, okay? You deserve to be happy just as much as she does.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Once Killian hangs up the payphone, he fights the urge to slide down the wall into a crumpled heap. Even after his talk with Belle, there’s still no good answers.

He’s got a lot to think about. 

———

As long as Killian doesn’t think too closely about their looming, unknown deadline, he can luxuriate in the sheer quiet joy of spending time with Emma. It’s easy to get used to her kisses and easy affection and the way that she has a special smile just for him when he walks into the diner. It’s a beautiful respite he didn’t know he needed and is certain he doesn’t deserve.

But far too often and too quickly, good things must end.

The new tire arrives on Thursday. Killian does his utter best to ignore it. As eager as he was to get in and get out of this little nowhere town three weeks ago, that’s all changed because of Emma. The itch under his skin is as strong as ever — the desire to blow all the dreams and pain away upon the winds — but his attachment to Emma, though new and young, is deep. She’s a balm to all his lingering wounds, a bright spot in his days that he never thought he’d find again, and the idea of leaving her is near unbearable, even if the idea of staying is just as suffocating. 

There’s only so long he can pretend to work off a debt he’s long since paid, though, and while David will never say anything, Killian sees the confused looks that the other man sends his way each day those tires continue to sit on a shelf.

“You know, you don’t have to leave if you don’t want to,” David mentions with an affected air of casualness as he works on the undercarriage of someone’s truck. Killian has been drafted to assist — though it seems to be just an excuse to trap him into conversation, considering that the only way he’s been helping is to hand over tools that David could just roll out and retrieve himself.

Killian braces himself against the truck’s bed, sighing heavily. He can’t help the exhalation; inside his head, all of Killian’s different desires war with each other — to stay with Emma, to leave for her own good, to leave for his own good. Underneath it all, though, is that same itch that’s driven him forward ever since he landed in this country, and it only grows stronger every day.

Staying was never really an option — not when he still needs wind whipping past his face to ground him every day.

“I know. But I can’t,” he finally replies, head bowed in a pointless instinct to hide his gaze from a man already obscured. 

David rolls himself back out to the light. “Why not? Has anyone made you think you couldn’t? Besides Graham, I mean, and that really was just a misunderstanding —”

“No, it’s not that. I’ll have to disagree about the sheriff’s intentions, but you’ve all been… wonderful. You, and Mrs. Nolan, and… Emma.” Killian stutters for a moment over her name; though they both knew going in that this wouldn’t end in anything lasting, it had been easy to forget that in a week and a half of bliss, and she’s the one who stands to hurt the most. Still, he must press on. “Better than I deserve, really. And I know you’d welcome me with open arms should I choose to make your little hamlet home. But it’s… I’ve got this compulsion to keep moving. Chasing something, or running away from something, I don’t even know anymore. But one day… I hope I’ll figure it out, and that feeling will settle.”

David hums, taking the time to replace his tools. If Killian’s not mistaken, it’s a stalling tactic. “You know, Emma has this theory,” he finally says, “that home is the place that when you leave, you just miss it. She and Mary Margaret spent a week — not even a week in Portland shopping for wedding and household things. And that was it for her. She and Mary Margaret were still in this terrible little apartment, but I’ve never seen her happier to be there. Gave me the biggest hug when she saw me as I came to pick up Mary Margaret for a date.” David smiles fondly at the memory. “I suppose what I’m saying is… maybe it takes some distance to realize what you want. And we’ll always be happy to welcome you back, if you choose to return. You’ve got a job here if you decide that’s what you want.”

It’s a lot to offer him, Killian knows — more than he expected. This entire town and all the people in it — especially the Nolans, especially Emma — are all more than he ever expected. “Thank you,” he says softly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

David just nods before grabbing a different wrench and wheeling back under the body of the truck, but Killian thinks there’s an understanding there — that I can’t stay doesn’t mean not ever, just not now. There’s a time and a place for everything in life, and the place Killian’s at right now isn’t nearly settled enough for tranquil little Storybrooke.

He shouldn’t have counted on David keeping that information to himself, however. Half the reason he’d avoided the matter of the tire in the first place was his own uncertainty about how to broach the topic with Emma. She deserves to hear from him that he’s leaving again, but all attempts he makes to imagine that conversation feel inadequate — too flippant, too detached, too lame. Decidedly not what she deserves.

Trust his Swan, however, to bring it up all on her own.

“So,” she starts, arm linked through his as they walk down Main Street together, “what’s this I hear about a tire?”

Killian’s heart jumps into his throat; without even intending, he slows their pace to barely a shuffle. “So you heard about that, then.”

“David’s not great about keeping secrets from Mary Margaret, and Mary Margaret isn’t great about keeping secrets from… anyone, really.” Emma chuckles at her little quip, but it doesn’t hold the joy Killian’s grown accustomed to in the past weeks. 

(God, when did he allow himself to become accustomed to that — or anything? He was never supposed to stay longer than a few weeks, and this only makes it harder.)

“I want to tell you, but…” Killian trails off. But what? He was scared? He was conflicted?

“It’s alright, Killian,” she smiles back, albeit weakly. “We always knew this was coming.” Emma gathers a deep breath as if to steel herself for what else she has to say. “So how much time do we have left, then? I know the road must be calling you again.”

But you are too, Killian doesn’t say. 

“Two days,” he says instead. “Three at most. David and I got Mr. French’s delivery van settled today, so we’ll be able to put the bike back together tomorrow and I can hit the road the next day, or the one after.”

“That’s not much time,” Emma replies softly, looking down at their shuffling feet as if she can’t bear to meet his eyes.

“No.”

(You could always ask her to come with, whispers Belle’s voice in his head. He’s not nearly brave enough to listen to it.)

Killian feels Emma take a deep, strengthening breath before she lifts her gaze to meet his again. “Then we’d better make the most of it.”

———

The next evening, Killian takes Emma for a ride on the newly-functional motorcycle, trying the whole while not to think about how this feels like goodbye. He remembers how she’d asked, one of those first nights, flirting even though Killian couldn’t see it, didn’t want to see it. Emma had gasped in surprise and delight when Killian came to pick her up after her shift (an early one, today, that lets them take a little cruise as the sun sets before them), drawn out to the diner’s front windows by the putter of the engine. 

“Are we going to go for a ride?” she practically demands. Not that Killian minds, as long as he gets to see the grin that splits her face from cheek to cheek. 

“As far as you want,” he promises.

(It was only supposed to be a few days, a couple of weeks at most, but ask her to come with echoes louder and louder in his head with each passing hour.)

Killian helps Emma onto the bike as best he can while straddling the seat himself, but she doesn’t prove to need much assistance, still steady even as she swings a leg over the body. It takes some doing, but he manages to crane his body around far enough to press a lingering kiss to her lips. 

(Not their last, not their last, his heart insists, but his brain still whirs in a panic of not enough time like another engine he’ll have to fix.)

“Are you ready, love?” he asks when they finally break apart. Emma nods enthusiastically. “Then hold on tight.”

It’s almost idyllic, cruising through Storybrooke’s back roads with Emma’s arms twined around his waist. She particularly seems to love the straight stretches of road where he can really test their speed. As the wind whips past their faces, Emma giggles and shrieks with glee behind him. Other women might have been nervous about the bike, or fretted about the number the wind will undoubtedly do to their hair, but not his Swan. It’s obvious she’s having the time of her life, and Killian feels grounded in a new way to feel her body perched behind his.

(Come with, come with, could come with…)

“God, I see why you love that so much,” she chuckles as they roll to a halt at the pier. Killian will never get back in the water, but there’s still something soothing about the endless horizon. “It’s exhilarating.”

And maybe it’s the joy in her voice, or the way she smiles as she swings off the bike again. More likely, it’s the result of the words that have been rattling around inside his skull ever since he talked to Belle. Whatever it is, it dissolves any filter between Killian’s brain and his mouth and the words come tumbling out before he can stop them. “You could come with me,” he blurts out in a rush, only to flush red as he realizes what he said. That was not remotely something he meant to say, but it’s out there in the world now, his heart dropped at her feet for her to pick up or kick aside.

Not that she’s done either, yet. Emma stands shocked and still in front of him, eyes wide like she can’t believe what she’s just heard. That’s a reasonable reaction; Killian certainly can’t believe that he just said it. 

“What did you say?” she whispers.

“Nothing, Swan, don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have said anything —”

“But you did,” Emma says, interrupting his backtracking. “Did you mean it?”

Killian sighs, sweeping his hand through his hair in yet another nervous tic. She probably knows all of them by now — the hand in the hair and the scratching behind his ear and all the rest of it. He’s a mess of a man, which makes him all the more certain that no matter what he might want, he can’t possibly deserve her. “Aye, I did,” he finally admits. “And I know it’s foolish, because I can’t possibly ask that of you, not when you’ve got a place like this to call home, with people who love you. Not when you’d have to put up with me. But it’s what I want.” He whispers it like a shameful secret. And maybe it is, a little bit — after all, he knows better than anyone that no matter how much he wants doesn’t mean it can ever happen.

“And why would you ever think that’s foolish?” Emma asks softly, stepping into his space to rest her hands on his shoulders.

“I mean —”

“I told you once that I wanted to be brave with you, and that it was my choice to make. I meant it then, and I mean it now, too.” As Emma pauses to stare into his eyes, Killian feels hope flutter in his chest, stronger and brighter than ever before, only to burst to glorious life as she finishes. “So ask me.”

It only takes a moment to swallow his nerves. “Come with me, Emma. Let me show you the world.”

Emma’s hands move to his face, stroking her thumbs along his cheeks to coax him into a smile to match her own. “Yes,” she says, softly, emphatically, lovingly.

And Killian finally allows his dreams to soar in flight. 

——— 

Their goodbye is sad, even though Emma assures everyone that it’s not forever. 

“I’ll be back, I promise,” she tells Mrs. Nolan, whose eyes brim with tears just waiting to fall. “We both will be.”

“I know that,” Mrs. Nolan insists. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t miss you! It won’t feel right, not seeing your face around town every day.”

“Promise me you’ll look after her,” David says quietly as Killian secures the saddlebags on the motorcycle. Emma has proved to travel light, just like him; she’d showed up with nothing more than a satchel, a tightly coiled bedroll, and a beaming smile. “Because Emma is special, and I don’t know what we’ll do if something happens to her. Or, more accurately, I don’t know what I’ll do to you if something happens to her,” he tries to joke, stretching a weak smile before falling back to something more serious. “She’s very precious to us — to all of us.”

“I know,” Killian replies, cracking a small smile as he watches Emma hug her friend. “She’s very precious to me, too. I promise that I’ll do everything in my power — everything and then some more — to watch over her and keep her safe.”

“Good.” David offers his hand to shake, and Killian grasps it firmly in return. Maybe it’s a sealing of the promise; maybe it’s a gesture of friendship; maybe it’s a little of both. Whatever the case, Killian feels something pass between himself and David: an understanding, almost a sort of peace.

Emma slides an arm around his waist, apparently done hugging and bidding farewell to her crowd of admirers. Killian could swear half the town turned up in front of the garage to send her off — Granny and Ruby, Sheriff Graham, Mrs. Nolan, and a whole slew of other people he only halfway recognizes. She’s obviously much loved; Killian could tell that even without David’s little speech.

“Ready to go?” she asks with a wide and happy smile. He’d understand if she was nervous, or scared, or sad, or anything else; that would be reasonable as she’s about to embark on a journey into the unknown with him. There’s only excitement in her gaze, however; it’s obvious she’s got a wanderer’s heart of her own.

“Whenever you are, love,” he smiles back.

It’s a matter of a moment to swing his leg over the body of the motorcycle and let Emma clamber on behind him with David’s help. As Killian starts the engine, the other man drops a kiss to Emma’s forehead that Killian pretends not to notice.

“Godspeed,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Killian to hear. “And you make sure to call and keep us posted, alright?” he concludes in a louder voice. 

“Of course, dad.” Killian can practically hear her roll her eyes, but he can hear the fondness, too. In a last gesture, Emma leverages herself off of Killian’s shoulders to press a kiss on David’s cheek. “Love you.”

“I love you too.” Tears gleam at the corner of David’s eyes, but he plasters on a grin anyways. “Now go on, hit the road before the sun gets too hot!”

Killian doesn’t need to be told twice. In a flurry of waves from Emma and her crowd of well-wishers, they slowly cruise back down Main Street, picking up speed as it gives way to a country highway.

“Are you ready for an adventure, Swan?” he asks as she twines her arms tighter around his waist, craning his neck to meet her gaze. 

“With you?” she smiles back. “Always.”

~~~~~

Tagging: @kmomof4, @aerica13, @thisonesatellite, @searchingwardrobes, @let-it-raines, @teamhook, @ohmightydevviepuu, @optomisticgirl, @winterbaby89, @spartanguard, @scientificapricot​, @snowbellewells​, @welllpthisishappening​, @tiganasummertree​, @captainswanbigbang​, @snidgetsafan​, @thejollyroger-writer​, @profdanglaisstuff​

[404fmdminjung]

full lyrical verification for dark clouds 

summary: downpour season marks korea’s july — cue minjung and notebook sitting in the corner of her veranda, playing with the droplets of spilt coffee while writing a rap verse. a song for the people around her if she’s ‘okay’ after each and every single tumultuous breakup. @fmdkami warnings: none wc: 1008 (without lyrics)

there are sunny days in the summer time — the temperature peaking over thirty-six, her limits tested. it comes as an obstacle that hinders her from stepping outside the doors on a day off, finding peace and coolness in the safety of the walls that trap her and the nespresso machine that lends itself a bit short from her normal routine of a walk narrowing to blue bottle. 

then, there’s the season of sonagi, downpour that doesn’t cease. five days of the week, a heavy rain for two days of the summer heat — another obstacle. yet, there’s no bitter resentment for the rain, the wash away of people clashed below and full on emptiness that leaves nothing but the white noise of droplets smashing against her window pane.

and she doesn’t complain, nor badger her phone screen for a quick delivery an full succumb into a first world issue. minjung makes the most of her time, perched in the corner of her veranda where the separation between the outside and inside leaves her dazed and the only thing she does is sit still with a straw pressed between her lips and eyes staring out into the void — 멍때리는 재미이라고 해야하나? (is this fun out of doing nothing? rough translation bc 멍때려-ing idk i can’t find a word for it)

she remembers each person that asks the same question programmed during the aftermath of a breakup — are you okay? and she sees herself to be like the dark clouds in the outside — cloudy, dreary. moments of recollection haunting her, and she’s left to shut out the outside voices and hungry noses hinting at their next topic of gossip.

i wish it would clear up, or at least a cool breeze would show it’s gray all day today, gray clouds follow me.

the words scribble themselves on paper, and she thinks the breakup to be a looming cloud of misery — a constant reminder of love and broken feelings, no longer valid. a void that’s meant to remain never to be filled. time doesn’t do much to anyone, nor does it hide away the complexities that entangle her with memories. what she wants to call for is salvation in the form of fresh air, or something less suffocating — a clear ray of sunshine, promising better tomorrows. but in reality, what she gets is the trail of gray clouds that hover over her.

i ignore my friends calls i answer after a day it’s obvious they’ll all ask ‘how do you feel’ and i’ll force a smile, do i have to do this?

and it becomes a product of routine, she realizes while writing this down. a product of a to b, x to z. the woe is me role she’s placed in when the tears of an ending lodge themselves like a heavy weight pressed against her throat — and all she wants is silence. nobody asking ‘how do you feel’ because in retrospect, if she flicked them all the middle finger asking them how they feel amidst the violent force of a heart being pulled directly out of the chest. they’d answer the same way anyone else would with a heart out of the body, barely beating. dead.

it’s a sarcastic story she writes today, a big ‘fuck you’ to all who ask about the decline of a relationship. she’s at fault, a love that doesn’t necessarily keep up and pin to her mind. in her eyes, she’s the wind — never pressed to one place nor allowed to accept the notion of permanency. she wants it, craves it. yet, it’s always unforgiving.

clouds above my head trying to cover my smile rather, can’t it just pour? drip drip drip drip (뚝 뚝 뚝 뚝)

it pulls the edges of her lips into a smile, the way the contrast of 뚝, the sound of fluttering raindrops and the onomatopoeia of tear drops of how children are told to ‘stop crying’. in reality, she just wants something cathartic, no longer held back by the presence of pretending to be something. and maybe, if she gave a middle finger while crying then people would leave her alone to be the lost girl sad.

they all say time is the balm glided over wounds, and she knows it’s no save-all for broken hearts. it’s a distraction, a numbing effect — a blurred image of old-vivid paintings. and that’s when she can swallow the bitter pill that she’s fine, yet her mind pulls into place the people that ask. suddenly, the blurred outlines detail themselves into finite lines, perfected and shaded. and she writes her response in one simple statement.

now i’m fine, don’t ask about him there’s more things to talk about why do you just hit it where it hurts the sky is clear now, i’m really fine i used all my emotions and i’m numb. so stop worrying about me.

she knows she’s lying through the smirk on her lips and the edges of the pen dancing along the paper. ‘i’m fine’ is a scapegoat, a hideout away from the harrowing pain held around her heart. a wish for nobody to worry, and maybe she’ll stop thinking to each press of her lips against milky skin and the depths of rooted talks grounding her soul to theirs. 

so, she writes down the only words of honesty that come straight — the words that she means to say, yet held back by the pride that keeps her facade strong and sturdy away from the rocks of pitiful stares and sympathetic hums. 

actually i think i held it in too much i wanna cry because of me, everything around me becomes darker in hindsight, i’m the dark cloud

a bit self-depreciating, but it’s the way she views herself. a terrorizing wrecking ball ready to stir chaos and devastation to any hint of kindness or any flinging fledge of love thrown her way. she knows how to love, a heart that only shows slivers of itself in moments of vulnerability. big picture — she’s got a heart too big for the world, capable of too much love that it scares her into sliding into a faux fixture of a dark cloud, encompassing everything around her.

—

she scribbles down whatever’s left in her head till she’s left in the same position of a dazed headspace. a continuation on a coffee she’s sipping, and the same visions of racing droplets against the window as she cheers for the straggled one at the top to win.