#and mint does not thrive inside

[seasonallyappropriategoth]

i need to talk to gansey and what i need to talk to him about is how the fuck he kept multiple mint plants happily alive indoors. that does not happen.

[briar-ffxiv]

FFXIV Write #10 - Stable

FFXIV Write 2024 Master Post

Prompt #10 - Stable

Briar sighed loudly, sitting back on his heels and glaring at his patch of strawberries. "You're criminals," he announced quietly. "Every single one of you! Look at this!"

It was late in the season so the harvest wasn't as large as it had been in summer, but still, there were plenty enough for him to make jams and jellies and other preservatives. The 'criminals' were several runner-plants creeping with ill intent toward the nearby vegetables. Years ago Briar had learned to use raised beds to help control them. Still, some of his more robust strawberry plants had decided to bid for freedom. Or destruction as strawberries were happy to choke other plants to death in their attempts to spread.

"Ugh," he muttered as he gathered the berries in the baskets. "I need to do something with you." He eyed the runner-plants with a sigh, reluctant to just dig them up and throw them away. It seemed such a waste and, for all his grumbling, it was merely Nature doing as Nature does.

Looking around, Briar tilted his head and made a thoughtful noise before rising. He moved away from the cottage and into the pasture. He paused to pet a few sheep, scratching Ajax's ears briefly as he made his way to a sandy ridge that led into the forest. He crouched to check if the soil was dry and stable enough, brushing his fingers through it before nodding to himself. "Perfect."

In short order, he finished gathering the strawberries and set them in his kitchen. Next, he started to dig up the strawberry runners, chuckling when Jack came to help, tossing soil about a little. "Good boy," he hummed, patting the sheepdog's mismatched ears as he gathered the extra plants into a basket.

With Jack at his heels, Briar went to the spot of ground he'd chosen. It was not too wet and nice and sunny, just as strawberries loved. Jack tilted his head to watch glancing at the garden and woofing at his master in confusion. "What?" Briar chuckled, hands still busily putting the small plants into the soil. Jack lay down and huffed at him. "Mmm, well, these are extras," he explained to the dog. "I figure if they do thrive through the winter, maybe some strawberries here will help keep the deer and rabbits out of my garden proper. And no harm in letting them have a treat too, right?"

Jack woofed again, short tail giving a few wags as he watched Briar finish placing all the spare strawberries. He jumped off to follow once the half-Elezen headed back toward the cottage. "Worse comes to it," Briar smiled. "The sheep will have some fresh strawberry leaves in spring, won't they?" He glanced over his shoulder and frowned. "I'll just have to make sure they don't take over the whole pasture… The only thing worse than strawberries is mint. That's why I only grow my mint in a pot," he declared to Jack, opening the door so the dog could bound inside with Briar behind.

[natasha-in-space]

To me, Rika's relationship with Saeran is one of the most tragic aspects of her story. Even bigger than her complicated feelings towards V, her Mint Eye ideology, or her inner longing to be loved and cared for. It's the ironic tragedy of it. In my opinion, it most blatantly depicts her descent into her violent and ruthless ways, and how it slowly went from something good to nothing but pain and misery.

She went from seeing her past self in that small and scared boy, wanting nothing more than to give him all the love and happiness she couldn't receive as a child, to barely even treating him as a human being. Sometimes I wonder, if Rika could get a glance into her own future, back when she has just taken small Saeran under her wing, back when she hadn't yet sullied her hands with his mother's blood... What if she could see the way she would eventually end up treating Unknown. As nothing but a disposable object to leave behind and abandon the second he does not meet her indifferent expectations of him. Not a sliver of warmth of affection towards him in her cold eyes. Or how she would end up forcing Ray to work and work, and work, until he can't even sit up straight, how she would forcefully keep him away from such basic needs as food and water. Or how she would thrive in Suit Saeran's self-destruction, simply because it benefits her goals, despite him hurting so very deeply and so suffocatingly on the inside.

What would her reaction be? Looking down at the redheaded boy she genuinely wants to love and protect, and knowing just what horrible things he would go through because of her?

I truly think that she loved Saeran genuinely at that time. How could she not? When those dull eyes of his were so reminiscent of the emptiness she has faced as a small, helpless child with nobody there to hold her, or to tell her that she is good, and she is loved. Her only desire was to make him smile. To give him something she was never given by the adults around her

But, how are you supposed to make someone happy, when you took away something as precious as a mother from them?

In my opinion, her accidental murder of the twins' mother was the beginning of the end of their relationship. Once that event has happened, there is no healthy framework for them to follow from then on. Not when she never confronts that action of hers. She doesn't get any closure, nor does she heal from the trauma of it. She keeps it all hidden, stashed away like a dirty secret to take to her grave. Only V knows about her crime. She can't confess to it to her therapist, and she certainly can't say anything about it to anyone else.

Her never confronting, never working through it eats away at her slowly, and it'll continue to do so.

And we know that this particular event has stuck with her throughout her life. She is haunted by it. In a way that forever alters her relationship with Saeran, and how she perceives herself in relation to him. She has always wanted to take on a more parental, motherly figure in his life, but it isn't until his mother's death, does she openly expresses her desire to be a full on mother to him.

Except, this time, it doesn't come from a genuine place of love and care for this boy. An innocent desire to make him smile. It's her guilt. It's her inner feelings of shame and disgust at what she has done, and her immediate desire to take that pain away from him. It's her inner guilt at the fact that those tears of his, as he breaks down from the realization that now even his mother has left him, are her fault. She took his mother away from him with her own two bloodied hands. And she's the reason he's suffering now.

As a result, she turns her trauma and guilt into action.

It is evident to us, that Saeran did not think of Rika as his mother or V as his father. Rika forced him to follow this role model, especially so after he was initiated into Mind Eye. And we know he kept a lot of things inside, even as he lived with them. Much like he kept a lot of things from Saeyoung to not upset him, like his pessimism towards the idea of surviving to adulthood. Saeran was always a child who showed compassion and empathy. I believe that his empathy is the reason why he didn't speak up about it. Subconsciously, he felt that Rika needed this, despite him not really understanding why. So, he went along with it. He was already receiving so much support from her and V, it's the smallest thing he could do for her.

The scene of Saeran's cleansing (or initiation, as they are technically two different ceremonies with different purposes, but I digress) is heartbreaking to witness. The scene is both grisly and violent, making it extremely difficult to watch. And, from Saeran's diary, we know that it happens after a while of horrible and definitely traumatic experiences for him. It's the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak.

But what always hurts me the most is Rika's attitude towards it. There is no malice, anger, or resentment in her voice. She is concerned, she is upset, and then, she is happy. She's not upset because Saeran is suffering from the violent actions she herself has inflicted upon him, no. Instead, she recontextualizes that pain he goes through as something that she is actively saving him from. She completely loses herself in the false assumption that Saeran is just like her.

She openly says so.

You are like me. We are the same. Therefore, I am saving you, in a way nobody saved me. I am saving you from the pain I know you are going through, because I hurt the same way.

And, in a way, I believe it is yet another, far more darker and horrifying expression of her guilt. She is desperate to cleanse him. She openly snaps at the believers to hurry up, because she needs to save him. It's not a want. It's a need. In a way, I think that's her way of atoning for the sin of taking his mother away from him. As, once he is fully cleansed, she takes that pain away from him. Even if she doesn't say it, her actions and behavior reveal everything you need to know.

It's okay now. Now I am your mother. You don't have to grieve anymore. You'll be safe with me, and you'll never feel that pain again.

Isn't it ironic that, over time, she treats him almost as horribly as his mother had treated him? She starves Ray, punishes him for making the slightest of mistakes, threatens him into being terrified of the outside world.

All the traumatic experiences he had as a child.

Even down to locking him up in a dark and cold place.

Rika's relationship with Saeran reveals how she has become the same cruel monster she swore to fight against. It's not easy to think about. Buy, God, is it interesting to pick apart.

[cosmiccrushes]

Mints & Movie Stars

Sanji x OC || 2.1k word chapter || 5k total

CH 1 here!

CH: 2

Sanji waits for his driver, Mason, to pull around, debating the likelihood that he'd be getting a call from HR. Twice. He'd touched her twice today. What was the matter with him? Nearly three times he reminds himself, if he counts the arm he draped around her chair. Which he doesn't. He'd long ago given up being cross with himself about the micro ways he found to be near her, to keep her close. But he’d set a hard line with himself at too familiar touches. He was her employer. He needed to act like it. Her safety was his responsibility. 

Which is why his annoyance skyrocketed earlier when Rachel talked of his security detail for the trip. She acted as if Sanji’s safety was the only consideration. What about Peri? Sanji’s selfish desire to keep her so close to him meant that tabloids made her a target of inquiry. As evidenced by today when Miss Asher asked a question as if Peri wasn’t sitting right next to him. This kept happening. Sanji’s response thus far involved redirecting away from Peri. He didn’t know what else to do. He feared revealing some inkling of his feelings and throwing fuel on the inferno gossip magazines thrived on. Sanji told Peri to ask for Elle and Robbie because he trusted them the most out of the agency’s in-house security team. Whenever they escorted him, Peri got included inside that bubble of protection, not treated like an afterthought. Traveling out of Vennport, Sanji wanted people he could trust. 

Mason parked at the curb, exiting the vehicle to open the rear door for Sanji. 

“Thanks, Mason.” 

“You’re quiet today,” Mason comments after several blocks of silence. 

“Hmm? Oh, I suppose I am. I booked a major role today. Going to be heading out of the city soon.” 

Mason smiles at him in the rearview mirror. “Congratulations! That’s great news. Will Miss Winters be accompanying you?” 

“Yeah, Peri will be there.” Sanji did his best to ensure Peri was always there. Driving back shadows she couldn’t see. 

“That’s good, Mr. Vinsmoke. She does a great job looking out for you. You need someone to take care of you while you’re busy being famous.” Mason smiles at him again. 

Sanji presses his forehead against the cool car window. He’d nearly confessed to Peri earlier how much he needed her. Not his personal assistant, her. Like an idiot. The truth was, he was terrified of not getting the role, of plummeting into obscurity- and willing to take any chance he could get to be near Peri, to let her assuredness soothe his anxiety. Then, in his moment of joyous career triumph, he’d scooped her into his arms. Like an idiot. Good luck to him ever forgetting the feeling of her body pressed against his, her laughter in his ear. Spinning together, boundaries blurring in a way that almost, almost, made Sanji feel like they were something more.  

Sanji knocks his head on the glass in personal penance, earning him a raised eyebrow from Mason.

***

Sanji sits inside his walk-in closet. His feet propped on top of his unopened, empty suitcase. Sanji hates packing. It reminds him too much that he’s not really going anywhere- and when he gets there- that he doesn’t really have anywhere to return. Sanji is lonely. He’s been lonely since his mother took her last breath, the final bowl of soup six-year old Sanji would ever make for her still cooling on her bedside table.

He grumpily kicks his suitcase. He hates wallowing in woeful memories. Can’t really afford it either. He worked hard to achieve his celebrity status, but it was a tenuous thread. Easily severed the second Sanji stepped out of line. People coveted the carefree movie star persona. No one wanted the morose man lying in a closet by himself kicking his metaphorical bag of childhood trauma. 

Sanji’s phone rings and he digs it out of his pocket. The caller ID displays the name of his only friend. “Hey, Luc.” 

“SanjI! What the hell man, when were you going to tell me!?” 

Sanji pulls the phone away from his ear at Luc’s volume. “What are you talking about?”

“The Stiegal movie! You got the role!” 

“Wow, that news traveled fast. I don’t think the agency even wants that announced yet.” 

“Bah, I didn’t read about it online. Buzz me in! I’m at your door.” 

“Of course you are. Just a second.” 

Minutes later, Luc joins Sanji on the floor of his closet, passing him a beer from the six pack he’s brought. 

“Thanks for this.” Sanji says, raising his beer bottle. 

“Absolutely. You land what’s sure to be the hottest movie of the year. What kind of best friend am I if I don’t make sure you celebrate?” 

“How did you find out anyway?” Sanji asks, taking a sip of his beer. 

“Ran into Tak at a mixer earlier. She told me.” 

Sanji’s brow furrows. “Tak? My hairstylist? And how did she know?” 

Luc shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe your assistant told her, they’re friends, you know.” 

Yes, Sanji knew. He remembers the first time Tak brought Peri as her plus one to a party. Sanji hadn’t known how she knew Tak then, but his eyes had been drawn to her like a magnet. She’d seemed uncomfortable, but not in a self-conscious way. More like she just wished she was somewhere else. Sanji kept missing snippets of conversation as his mind drifted in daydreams about what other place the woman trailing behind Tak might wish to be. 

“Peri wouldn’t do that.” Sanji says, defensiveness obvious in his tone, even to himself. 

Luc lifts an eyebrow. “Ah, yes. Of course, Peri would never do something wrong. 

“I will pour this beer on you.” Sanji threatened. 

“It’s your closet,” Luc says shrugging. 

Sanji sighs. “I just meant that Peri is good at her job. She wouldn’t spread gossip.” 

“Oh, I know what you meant,” Luc says, smirking. “So when do you start filming?”

“We’ve got to sail out to Crow Island in the next week for table reads.” 

“Crow Island?” Luc sits up straighter, voice rising with interest. “That place is a veritable pleasure island! I’d know!” Luc winks at him, smile turning mischievous. “Now, I would assume that Miss Peri Winters will be accompanying you to said island?” 

Sanji looks at his best friend darkly. “Stop.” 

Luc laughs boisterously. “Oh come on, Sanji! It’s perfect! You’ll get all swept up in the thrill of your new fancy movie and then you tell her how you feel! Finally!” 

“Stop it. No. I cannot and will not be doing that.” 

“Why not?” Luc stretches the phrase out. 

“Because,” Sanji sets his beer on the floor, angrily unzipping his suitcase. “It’s beyond inappropriate. I’m her boss.” 

“The line between boss and boyfriend could be so thin, you just have to believe.” 

Sanji throws a t-shirt he’d been folding at Luc’s head. “Don’t be gross.” 

Luc pulls the t-shirt off his head. “I’m not trying to be disrespectful. I’m just saying. You deserve to be happy. And sooner or later she’s going to figure out how you feel. You’re not that good of an actor.” 

Sanji opens a drawer, pulling out socks that he pelts Luc with, which does nothing to remove his best friend’s mirthful smile.  

***

“We’re here, Mr. Vinsmoke, Miss Winters.” Mason says from the driver's seat, clear morning sun streaming through the windows.

“Thank you, Mason. And oh!” Peri rummages around in her tote bag, pulling out a thermos that she presents to Mason. “Clam chowder!” 

“You didn’t!” Mason’s cheeks flush as he reaches across the center console to take the container from Peri. “You shouldn’t have, Peri. Where did you even find the time?”

Oh so it’s Peri now, not Miss Winters. 

“It was nothing!” Peri smiles brightly at their driver. 

Sanji feels distinctly left out of whatever's happening in the front of the car. “Peri, don’t we need to get going? We can’t be late.” 

Peri looks back at him. “Right. Enjoy the clam chowder, Mason. Let me know how it is!” Peri pats him on the arm before opening her car door. 

Sanji follows her out. “What’s with the soup?” 

“Hmm?” Peri walks without glancing up from her fingers tapping away on her phone. 

“The soup? That you just gave Mason?”

“Oh, he mentioned that it was a speciality in the town where he grew up and he’s missed it since moving here. I did a quick search and found a copycat recipe and tried it out last night.”

“Weren’t you busy planning for our trip all day yesterday?”

Peri finally looks up at him, frowning. “Don’t worry, Sanji. I’m on top of it. I made the chowder on my own personal time.”

Not what Sanji meant, but what he meant rarely seemed to come out the right way around Peri. With everyone else his words flowed out effortlessly, and people always seemed to like what they heard. But with Peri…his words were like a current reversed, flowing in the complete opposite way he usually meant for them to. He hated it. He didn’t know how to fix it. 

Classic Peri, someone needed taking care of and she was right there to offer it. It was one of the things that drew him to her. Her heart was so big. The third occasion Sanji ever saw her, she’d been bringing a cup of water to one of the musicians playing at a charity ball the entire agency had turned out for. He’d watched, enraptured as she noticed the overheating cellist and discreetly made her way to the bar to order a water. She’d hovered at the stage’s edge, waiting for a break in songs to present the cup to the woman. She’d smiled gratefully at Peri and Peri’s answering smile was so warm, Sanji felt it from across the room. What would it be like, he wondered, to stand in the full glow of that smile? He’s never going to find out if he keeps acting like a complete ass around her.   

“Which reminds me, you can check your email for the travel itinerary, but I’ll also leave a hardcopy on your desk. I’ll come by your place tomorrow night with the suggested packing list from your stylist.” Peri pauses, frowning down at her phone. At least it was no longer directed at Sanji. “Wait, actually tomorrow night’s no good for me.” She taps a finger to her lip. “I’ll see if Cam can have the packing list ready to drop off tonight.” 

“Why doesn’t tomorrow night work for you?” Sanji asks. His engagements tomorrow conclude by 6 o’clock, or so he thought. Although, admittedly, Peri is the one who makes sure Sanji is where he needs to be, when he needs to be there. She’d know best.

A blush colors her cheeks. “I, uh, I have a date.” 

Sanji swears his heart skips a beat. “A date?” 

“Don’t worry,” Peri says hurriedly. “I planned it for after your last appointment ends so it won’t interfere with work.”   

Sanji’s getting tired of her telling him not to worry. “Is it a good idea to go on a date before we’re out of town for a while?”

Peri’s lips press into a thin line. “I’m not sure that’s any of your business.” 

No, it bloody well wasn’t any of Sanji’s business but oh how he wanted it to be. “I’m sorry, Peri. You’re right.” 

Peri nods her head once, proceeding through the glass door of the agency’s building. 

Sanji watches her go, feeling like an absolute jerk for the way his mind is already spinning with plausible ways he could sabotage Peri’s date. He won't. Probably. What's another night spent alone in his closet polishing off a six pack, just him and his baggage.

Sanji spends the rest of the day in a grumpy haze that he hides behind pleasant smiles. It’s a day filled with meetings and contract negotiations and plans for filming. Sanji does his best to stay focused and listen. Feels a little guilty knowing Peri will pick up whatever slack he drops because of his lack of concentration. He asks her for mints more frequently than usual, unable to quell the desire to pull her attention to him for even a moment. Worried that he crossed a line with her this morning that would lead her to quit. To walk away from him and never return. But Peri is her usual, efficient self all day. 

A familiar feeling of defeat lodges under his ribs. Peri was fine, because Peri wasn’t dissecting and agonizing over everything he did. That night, lying in bed staring up at the ceiling, Sanji tried very hard not to agonize over the date Peri would be on tomorrow night. 

[scoundrels-in-love]

I got exactly 1 like on my post about unhinged dice sharing, so here's to you @spacepandar EDIT: and you too @joycrispy

First up, we've got Daisy Chain set

Did I think those were teeth at first glance? I sure did! Does it change how I feel about them? Nope. In fact, what is more badass than the sharp edged beauty of Nature that will devour you?!

THE ENDLESS CYCLE OF CONSUMPTION AND REBIRTH/10

Sacred Flame set

Sink into the colors of the holy fire, the burning rage of a cleric personified. Look at the gentle shimmer of golden hues shifting into the purples, swirling higher and higher. The only and the last sunset you ever wanted

Death wish/10

Succulent set

Just look at them! It's bunch of little guys!! Thriving in unwelcoming environment (battle with the BBEG at your table). And they won't die even if you forget to water them for the entire year. Who else is doing it like them? NOBODY. And they believe you can do it, too!

1000 levels of wholesome/10

Sigil Green set

Have I ever held these? No. Do I know they'd make me feel like a FUCKING BADASS if I did? Hell to the yeah. JUST LOOK AT THEM. They don't need to be literally sharp edged when they're looking this sharp. Get it? ... Moving on.

Microdosing on wizard coolness/10

Class Rogue set

If you're more of literal stab-stabby type, don't worry I got you! The d4 fulfills its destiny as melee weapon. AND HAS ONE INSIDE. In perpetual swirl of the enemy blood, there's no edgier way to say your parents are dead to your table than slapping these bad boys down.

So many stabs/10

This post is not sponsored by Mint and Mustard, only slight fever and love for click clack math rocks. However, do check their site out (or Etsy) out as they've got 20% discount going on their site right now and have loads of other fun stuff for ttrpg nerds.

[marshmallowprotection]

reading about suit reacting to MC's birthday... mine is about a week before the twins' (6/3), so I have to wonder if that would make him more likely to freak out/spiral. he's already thinking about his birthday and right before suddenly it's MC's, the epitome of the outside world who's probably never had a sad birthday in their life (regardless of how true that is). i can see him feeling like the world is mocking him by those days being so close together (or even MC themself, as irrational as that is). especially if I made the very unwise decision to ask when his birthday is, since I'd be thinking about it.

It wouldn't end well. Perhaps, that's putting it just framing it lightly so it's not as painful to digest. No matter what you've gone through in your life before you met, to Suit Saeran, you are the very depiction of a world that has shunned him since his very first breath.

You are the idea of everything that he's never been allowed to have or experience, and that not only makes every part of his agony laced body seethe with bitter jealousy, it forces him to confront every emotion he's tried for so long to suffocate. Those feelings that bounce between wanting to like you and wanting to dispose of you.... those longer on the forefront of his mind. He can't stand how you survive despite every horrible thing that happens.

How do you seemingly never bend like he did and find a reason to smile?

Why is it that the world just gave you everything and him—nothing?

Even if you've suffered in your life time and time again, Saeran can't bring himself to believe that. Why? Why can't he believe that you've suffered before? It's because you stand despite whatever those awful feelings were. You don't crack and cry for mercy from the pain. You stand there and keep surviving in a way that he wasn't allowed to—that Ray wasn't allowed to.

You challenge the teachings of Mint Eye that have been burned into him like a scar that will never fade away.

If you stand tall and never fall... It begs to reason that he has been wrong about strength all along, and he can't be wrong. If he's wrong, then all the suffering and pain he's dealt out and received had no purpose whatsoever. The Savior is wrong... and, if Rika is wrong about everything... you see where that line of thinking would take him. Saeran can't question the cult manipulation.

If he does, then he will crumble where he stands in despair.

The core of Suit Saeran only survives because he has to be a monster. If being a monster is not the way to be strong, then he's done everything for no reason but to cause harm. The very antithesis of a life that the child inside of Ray and Saeran wanted all along. When you exist outside of what he knows, he can't accept it. If he does, he cracks.

So, put that on top of the already stressful day of his birthday where he grinds his teeth and thinks about how he was abandoned in a horrible house years ago by the only person he ever trusted. The day of his birth is not a happy day. It's a reminder that he'll never be happy as long as the people who left him to suffer smile and thrive in the world that turned its back on him before he even had a chance to try.

So, if your birthday springs up right before his and he has to face another factor in this world that is a reminder of all the reasons why he's been left out to rot? You can imagine how that would make him feel as a person, right? Regardless of your feelings that spring up around your birthday, he will imagine the day as a bitter feeling in his guts. Another reason in his mind to feel rueful about what he lacks.

It's easy to imagine that he would use your day as another reason to beat you down, but that feels... way too easy of a cheap shot. Why risk triggering himself over this? Well, it's not like he hasn't done that before but... this one feels like it might be the tipping point of everything he's trying to hold back inside of him. I can't see him using your birthday in a way like that. But, it's not impossible given how... fast he is to shoot himself in the foot.

Birthdays aren't a safe subject for him. It's better to steer clear of them for everybody's well being.

[thorntonkrell-blog-blog]

In his garden, George Fern cultivated a quiet sanctuary, a stark contrast to the emotional minefield of his home. It wasn’t just a garden of vegetables; it was a gallery of small triumphs and unspoken dreams. He grew tomatoes because they reminded him of summers as a child, when life seemed simpler and he could escape his father’s criticisms by hiding in the vines. He planted marigolds and nasturtiums for their unapologetic bursts of color, a defiant rebellion against the muted tones of his marriage.

There was a small corner dedicated to a patch of lavender, its calming fragrance a silent protest against the tension that gripped his household. The lavender was flanked by an herb garden—basil, mint, thyme, and rosemary—because George liked to imagine that one day he’d cook for someone who appreciated his efforts, someone who wouldn’t nitpick the seasoning or sigh loudly when he overcooked the pasta.

In the center of the garden stood a single rose bush, a gift he’d bought for Martha years ago, back when he still believed that gestures could mend what words could not. The rose bush thrived under his care, its blooms lush and fragrant, though Martha barely acknowledged it anymore. George suspected she resented the rose for thriving in a way their marriage never had.

When George felt particularly battered by the standoff within the house, he’d take his garden shears and prune the rose bush, not out of necessity, but because it gave him the illusion of control. Out here, amidst the dirt and the sun, he could pretend he was tending to something that might grow into something beautiful, something that didn’t resent him for who he was—or wasn’t.

But the tomatoes were his favorites. He talked to them, not because he believed they could hear, but because they never talked back. They didn’t sigh or criticize or call him “George Fern” like it was an insult. They grew in quiet acceptance, their green stems and red fruit a small testament to his ability to nurture something, even if it wasn’t his marriage.

This garden wasn’t just an escape; it was a counterpoint to the silent standoff that defined his relationship with Martha. Here, among the plants, George found the peace that eluded him inside the walls of his home. The garden reminded him that life, in all its small, messy moments, could still offer a glimmer of hope, even if that hope came in the form of a perfectly ripened tomato or the soothing scent of lavender on his hands.

George Fern had come to believe that his marriage wasn’t a partnership but a silent standoff—two people walled in by their own grievances, daring the other to blink first.

The signs had been there for years, but George, ever the optimist, had chosen to ignore them. The way Martha sighed heavily when he spoke as though his words required too much effort to process. The way she closed cupboards just a little too hard, not slamming them, but just enough to register dissatisfaction. The way she referred to him as "George Fern" in conversations, as if to imply there might be another George somewhere she could tolerate more.

It was no longer anger that defined their days, but something colder: contempt. The kind that turned shared meals into battlegrounds of passive-aggression, with comments sharp enough to cut through the silence. George often retreated to his garden, where he could talk to his tomatoes without being interrupted. They listened better than Martha ever had, though he suspected even they were growing tired of his monologues.

Martha Fern didn’t believe in sugarcoating things, least of all when it came to her husband, George. Thirty-five years of marriage had taught her that George’s ego could withstand anything, so she didn’t bother sparing his feelings—especially not when he brought his problems on himself.

That night, when George announced he was “taking charge” of his digestion, Martha had only raised an eyebrow. “Taking charge, huh? Does that mean you’re skipping dessert for once?”

George puffed up like a blowfish, holding up a bottle of Gentle Herbals like he’d invented penicillin. “No need. This will do the trick.”

Martha scanned the label. “Gentle Herbals? Oh, George, that’s adorable. Like your digestive system’s ever been gentle.”

Undeterred, George ignored her skepticism and proceeded to measure out a dose large enough to alarm a pharmacist. “Three capsules should do it,” he declared.

“The bottle says two,” Martha pointed out. “But sure, go ahead and double down. What’s the worst that could happen?”

George grinned, oblivious to her icy tone. “Exactly! What’s the worst that could happen?”

Martha sighed. “I’ll let you find out.”

The laxative was supposed to be a quiet rebellion, a small act of independence against the wall of constipation—literal and metaphorical—that had come to define his life. It was his idea of taking control, of doing something bold for once, even if it was only for himself. He hadn’t expected the dose to backfire quite so spectacularly.

George Fern’s night with the laxative was destined to become family lore, though for now, it was fresh, raw, and humiliating. Standing half-naked in the hallway at 8 a.m., clutching a plastic bag full of his own shame, George froze when his wife, Martha, flicked on the light.

George thought to himself; "She never notices me unless I'm doing something stupid which means I'm always doing something stoopid in her eyes."

“George,” she said, her voice as sharp as the ammonia stench wafting from his direction. “What. Are. You. Doing?”

Caught between his desperate urge to get to the garage and his futile hope that Martha might let him off the hook, George stammered, “It’s not what it looks like.”

George Fern stood frozen in the dim bedroom light, the crinkling sound of the plastic bag in his trembling hand the only thing breaking the silence. His wife, jolted from her sleep, blinked at the sight before her: George, red-faced and guilty, holding what could only be described as the ultimate emblem of defeat—a bag full of shit soaked underwear, the result of an overconfident laxative dose.

“George…” Her tone was a mixture of disbelief, exasperation, and an undertone of concern that only years of marriage could layer into a single word.

“I was just… uh… taking out the trash,” he stammered, as though the excuse might mask the unmistakable odor wafting through the room.

Her eyebrow arched, a silent question that didn’t need voicing. Trash, in a clear grocery bag? At three in the morning? Wearing nothing but his Panthers tee shirt and one sock?

In that moment, George realized the futility of excuses in the face of undeniable evidence. The bag crinkled again, a traitorous sound that seemed to mock his already weak attempt at misdirection. Excuse-making in situations like this isn’t just a lost cause—it’s a form of self-inflicted torture, a futile act of grasping at shreds of dignity that have already been incinerated.

He could feel her gaze drilling into him, not with anger, but with something worse: contempt. That look, that waiting silence, was the truest trap of all. It left no room for escape, no room for even the most feeble justifications.

Martha crossed her arms, her icy glare boring into him. “Oh really? Because it looks like my grown husband just lost a battle with a turd and is now sneaking around carrying a see through bag of his own shit”

George sighed, the weight of his humiliation pulling his shoulders down. “I’m cleaning up my mistakes,” he muttered. “What else is new?”

As George shuffled towards the garage, the bag dangling from his hand like the evidence of some absurd crime, he could feel the heat rising in his cheeks again. Humiliation had a way of lingering, clinging to his thoughts like the stubborn stench in the air. He’d hoped the brief exchange with Martha might allow him some grace, but instead, it left him feeling smaller, like a man slowly being whittled down to nothing.

He paused in the doorway, the dim light casting long shadows across the unmade bed. It was still there, waiting for him—sanctuary, or perhaps judgment. The sheets were rumpled, a reflection of his restless tossing before the night took its disastrous turn. He dropped the bag into the trash can with a resolute thud, hoping it might symbolize a moment of closure, however minor.

be was the only difference between garbage and garage.

The smell still clung faintly to his nostrils, a phantom reminder of the night’s ongoing debacle. He stared at the garbage can, now the unwilling vault for his humiliation, and let out a long, shaky breath. The worst of it was over, wasn’t it? At least the bag was gone, tucked away where it wouldn’t haunt him—physically, at least.

The silence of the house wrapped around him as he tiptoed back through the hall. Each creak of the floorboards felt louder than it should have, a sharp echo in the dead of night. His sock-clad foot brushed against the cold tile of the kitchen, and he hesitated, leaning against the counter. A glass of water? No. That would only risk another trip to the bathroom, and George Fern wasn’t prepared to tempt fate tonight. Not again.

He paused outside the bedroom for a moment before approaching the bed.

Sliding under the covers, he tried to ignore the faint scent that still lingered, a cruel reminder of the night’s ordeal. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of Martha’s presence beside him—silent, unmoving. He wanted to say something, to explain, to break the heavy quiet, but words felt as futile as his earlier excuses. So, he lay there, letting the tension hang.

Sleep wouldn’t come easily; he knew that much. The scene kept replaying in his mind—the bag, the light, the look on Martha’s face. He thought about how quickly a moment could shift from private embarrassment to shared spectacle from speculation to escalation. That was the thing about marriage: there were no true secrets, no solitary humiliations. Even in the darkness, the memory of the moment seemed to cast its own light, harsh and unforgiving, making the prospect of rest feel like a distant dream.

When he finally slid back into bed, the sheets felt cool and almost foreign against his skin. Martha had rolled to her side, her back to him, the steady rise and fall of her breath a clear signal that she had already moved on—if not emotionally, at least physically—to the realm of sleep. He envied her, that ability to drift off and leave the world behind. For George, tonight’s events loomed like a storm cloud in his mind, blotting out any chance of rest.

He stared at the ceiling, every shadow morphing into a new iteration of his mortification. A faint breeze from the ceiling fan rustled the curtain, and he tried to focus on the sound, to use it as a lifeline pulling him toward slumber. But his mind wouldn’t relent. It cycled back to the hallway, to the garage, to Martha’s raised eyebrow and her sharp words. The phrase “a battle with a turd” replayed in his head like some cruel mantra.

Pulling the blanket up to his chin, George closed his eyes and tried to think of something else—anything else. Tomorrow, this would all be funnier, he told himself. Or maybe not tomorrow, but someday. Family lore, he thought with a grim smirk. At least his humiliation wasn’t wasted; it was destined to become another thread in the absurd fabric of the Fern family story. But for now, it was just him, his shame, and the impossible task of willing himself to sleep.

By morning, the floor was mopped, the bathroom scrubbed, and George had stepped on the scale to discover he’d lost a pound. “Hey, Martha,” he called out, still clinging to the possibility of redemption. “Guess what? I’m lighter!”

Her reply was as dry as the toast she was buttering. “And I’m married to a man who thinks a pound of shit equals personal growth.”

In that moment, George wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. It struck him how much his relationship with Martha mirrored his digestion: complicated, uncomfortable, and sometimes downright messy. But, like all such moments, time would soften it. The humiliation would become comedy, then farce, and eventually, a story retold with laughter over coffee and toast.

For the moment he could only craugh, the combination of laughter and sorrow that produced a unique sound of overburdened conscience more aggressive than a sigh and less demonstrative than a shrug. Martha was familiar with the gesture and counted it as a kind of infuriating victory.

Conscience, like George during his nocturnal cleanup, often emerges at the worst possible time, dragging us into the uncomfortable work of facing ourselves. Its purpose is dual: to guide and to teach. It acts as a moral compass, aligning us with some version of truth, whether personal or universal. But it also serves as a burden, reminding us of our failures and our flaws. Interrupted dreams..demolished pajamas...caught in the harrowing act of being ourselves.

In George’s case, the laxative ordeal was a catalyst for self-reflection. His conscience lingered long after the smell had faded, whispering that perhaps this wasn’t just a story about digestion but a metaphor for his life. Conscience turned the comedy of his immediate embarrassment into the tragedy of recognizing a deeper dissatisfaction—both with his own choices and with the dynamic between him and Martha, something that he was always trying in vain to fix and suffering when the remedies only worsened the situation and when the new level of suffering could be attributed to the cure.

This interplay between conscience and experience mirrors the transformations of comedy, tragedy, and farce. Conscience doesn’t just sit in judgment; it reframes the narrative, teaching us humility through time and reflection. If we all had a little more humiliity perhaps we could reduce the specific need to humilate and the comedy of humiliation.

The story of George and the shit bag is an alchemical process in miniature. In the moment, the situation was pure comedy—a man caught in the absurdity of his own hubris. Ego thrives in comedy, deflecting discomfort with humor. George, in his desperation to find dignity, clung to his weight loss as a punchline. But time and conscience have a way of reframing such moments.

As George reflected, the story became something heavier: a tragedy about the underlying dynamics of his marriage, his struggles with aging, and the tension between him and Martha. Tragedy demands that we sit with discomfort, acknowledging the gap between who we are and who we’d like to be. George’s recognition that his relationship had grown constipated—stuck, stagnant, and in need of cleansing—was his tragic reckoning.

But time doesn’t let tragedy stay solemn forever. Eventually, it gives way to farce. The image of George shuffling through the hallway half-naked with a package of poop becomes ridiculous in its exaggeration. Farce liberates us from the weight of tragedy, allowing us to laugh not just at the situation but at the ego that made it so dire in the first place.

The dynamic between George and Martha is a microcosm of the relationship between conscience and ego. Ego, like George’s initial confidence, seeks validation and control. It resists discomfort, deflecting responsibility and clinging to immediate gratification. Conscience, however, is more like Martha—cold, cutting, and relentless in its demand for accountability.

Comedy panders to the ego, offering relief through laughter. Tragedy dismantles it, forcing reflection. Farce reconciles the two, letting the ego laugh at itself, embracing its flaws rather than denying them. Conscience mediates this process, helping us move from deflection to reflection and, finally, to release and forgiveness until or unless forgiveness becomes an impssibility and the a laughter dies in silence.In the end, George’s laxative story isn’t just about digestion; it’s about the messy, nonlinear journey of being human. Conscience doesn’t exist to perfect us—it exists to guide us through the imperfection. It humbles us through tragedy, teaches us resilience through farce, and allows us to laugh at ourselves, even when the still surviving laughter comes with a wince.

As George might say, looking back on that night with a wry smile, “You live, you learn, and sometimes, you lose a pound in the process.”

[growwarehouse]

Nurturing Nature Indoors: Cultivating an Enchanting Indoor Garden

In the current times of urbanisation and cramped spaces, the concept of an indoor garden is a breath of fresh air. Not only does it bring the beauty and serenity of nature into our homes, but it also offers numerous health benefits. The journey to cultivating an enchanting indoor garden involves a combination of skill, knowledge, and the right resources, such as Flairform nutrients and a basic understanding of hydroponics.

The Allure of an Indoor Garden

An indoor garden brings the tranquillity and vibrancy of nature into your living space. It can be a source of fresh produce, a haven for exotic plants, or a peaceful retreat from the urban hustle. More importantly, it helps improve air quality, enhance mood, and even boost productivity. Regardless of the amount of area available, anyone can grow lovely indoor gardening with the appropriate strategy.

Understanding Hydroponics

The art of indoor gardening has been revolutionised with the advent of hydroponics – a soil-less method of growing plants using mineral nutrient solutions in water. With hydroponics, you can grow plants faster and more efficiently, as it allows for precise control over the nutrients the plants receive. This method is perfect for indoor gardens due to its space-saving design and the potential for year-round growth.

The Role of Flairform Nutrients

A significant aspect of successful indoor gardening is ensuring your plants receive optimal nutrition. This is where Flairform nutrients come into play. These scientifically-formulated nutrients offer a balanced blend of essential minerals that enhance plant growth and health, making them an excellent choice for indoor gardens. Whether you're cultivating herbs, vegetables, or decorative plants, these nutrients ensure your plants get exactly what they need to flourish.

Creating Your Indoor Garden

Choose a location for the garden inside to start. When choosing the venue, take into account elements such as space, temperature, and light availability. The next step is to select plants that can be grown indoors. Herbs like mint and basil, leafy greens, succulents, and flowering plants like orchids are a few of the more well-liked options.

Setting up a hydroponic system may seem daunting, but with a bit of research and patience, it's achievable. There are various hydroponic systems available, from simple wick systems to more complex aeroponic systems. Choose a system that best fits your needs and space.

Following the specified dosage, add your plants and begin feeding them Flairform nutrients once the system is ready. To guarantee ideal plant health, regularly check your system's pH and nutrient levels.

Final Thoughts

Nurturing nature indoors through an enchanting indoor garden is a rewarding and therapeutic endeavour. With a good understanding of hydroponics and the right nutrients like Flairform, you can create a thriving indoor oasis that adds life, colour, and freshness to your living space. Not only will this allow you to reap the benefits of fresh produce and air-purifying greenery, but it will also provide you with an ever-evolving project that grows more beautiful with each passing day.

[diosefm]

ATONEMENT: the demise of diose valey

there’s a new revolution, a loud evolution that i saw born of confusion and quiet collusion of which mostly i’ve known a modern day woman with a weak constitution, ‘cause i’ve got monsters still under my bed that i could never fight off a gatekeeper carelessly dropping the keys on my nights off

tw: death, alcohol, paranoia, violence, kidnapping, murder, torture

                                                    TIME OF DEATH: 2:13 AM

trigger free tl;dr

FRANCIS FOREVER — i don’t know what to do without you, i don’t know where to put my hands. i’ve been trying to lay my head down, but I’m writing this at three am

3:08 AM

Sleep evades you. It’s a recurring thing now.

Wine doesn’t help. You’d think it would at least make you tired enough to lie in bed and empty your head, but all it does is give you a headache that can only be cured with more and more glasses. And you think too much. Hyperaware of everything going on around you. 

And even if you can’t sleep, you still have nightmare. You’re wide awake when you swear someone is banging on your window, but it’s just the rain. The sun comes out, hits your eyes and forces you to close them as you get used to the light. Then your door opens. 

You’ve lost count of how many times the avoxes there to serve you have been victims of your latest tirades. You lash out. Scream and shout as you destroy your suite because it’s all you can do. Hysterical, that’s what you are. So you drink more. Slur out a  poor attempt at an apology. It doesn’t matter. Next morning it’ll be as if nothing happened and you will snap again. 

Sleep could help, but you’re no longer used to not sharing your bed with someone.

Days and nights blur together. There is not an end nor a beginning to your days. You’re lying on the floor, at the brink of passing out with a glass of wine in your hand. For weeks, you’ve feared someone will slip something in your drink, poison you. Little did you know, you’re already doing all the work for them.

You can’t remember the last time you ate, nor the last time you slept. You’re delirious. Weak after spending the little strength you had yelling at the avox with the black hair. That is why when your door is opened, you don’t bother to look up.

Your bruised cheek rests against the floor of your suit, the coldness making some of the soreness go away. Someone approaches you, kneels down beside you and runs their hand through your messy hair. 

“Pista?“

Incredible how despite everything, you are still able to hold onto the smallest glimmer of hope. If he is there, maybe you can stand up. Do better. Be better. You promised. 

Your eyes are tired, but even despite how blurry your vision is, you can tell it’s him. Desperate, you prop yourself up with the help of your arm and cling onto him, allow him to lift you off the ground. It’s not until you breathe in his scent that you notice his smell is different. 

Frightened, you take one look at his face and realized you’ve been tricked. It’s eerie how much this man looks like him. Has all of this been done on purpose? Flight or fight. You manage to get him to let you go, but your body is nothing but alcohol at this point, you stumble and fall onto the ground. He calls you a bitch, which you think you deserve. Grabs onto your hair before you can flee, tugging so hard you feel he pulls part of your scalp with it. 

You’d yell for Slate to move save you like he’s done before, but he is gone. And soon so will you. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him pull something out of his pocket. He jabs a needle into your neck, and you finally get to sleep.

SEVEN DEVILS — seven devils all around me, seven devils in my house. see, they were there when i woke up this morning. i’ll be dead before the day is done

8:42 PM

The faint scent of expensive perfume stirs you awake. Your body is sore, and your head pounding. But your outer appearance doesn’t show how terrible you feel. You catch your reflection on a glass table and marvel at what you see, because you swear you’ve never looked more beautiful. 

The dress you are wearing is very familiar. It takes you a few minutes until you realize it’s one of your projects, one that had been sitting in your studio for months. They’ve been at your home, invaded your privacy, gone through your things.

Hair is freshly dyed, perfectly styled to frame your face and the gorgeous job the makeup artists did. No matter what your circumstances have been, you’ve had the ability to always look magnificent. Still, they’ve done a masterful job showing your full potential. 

No wonder so much people have always been desperate to be you, with you, or they just want to end you.

As your eyes get used to the light, you notice you’re sitting in the middle of what appears to be a television set. Your first instinct is to explore it, to leave the pristine mint green couch you’re sitting on, but you notice the shackles around your ankles, essentially holding you in place.

You’re not alone for long. Far away, you notice your father’s assistant woman. A petite woman with a fiery red mane of hair and much younger than you. You know very well she’s his latest conquest and a social climber you managed to spot the second you first set your eyes on her.

 Cherry, you think her name is. Tacky, just like her. But as much as you hate her, she seems to be your only hope. You call out her name, but she ignores you. Long gone are the days of her begging for your attention. Now you’re the one desperate for her to even glance your way. 

This is only the start.

Slowly, more people start arriving,, all of them with a job to do. And despite being surrounded by a crowd now, you’re ignored by everyone. It’s the first time this has ever happened. It doesn’t matter how much you’re glowing, you’re no one to them.

Despite your screams and your pleading, no one tells you what’s happening until a man arrives. You’ve seen him already, you just can’t remember. It’s his scent that clues you in, and you go feral. But you can’t move. the shackles are noisy enough to get everyone to look at you, but he is the only one focused on you, telling you that you need to shut up and avoid making yourself look bad because you will have all of Panem’s eyes on you soon. He adds a threat to his spiel, he brings up Sage and shows you her icture and you instantly press your lips tightly together. 

Caesar arrives shortly. Does’t greet you, doesn’t acknowledge you. Whatever fake yet cordial relationship existed between the two of you is now gone. He is there to do his job, that’s it. He shuffles his notes, deep in thought. The show should commence shortly. 

Prime time TV, here you come.

YOU’RE ON AIR

The title card is gorgeous. But how could it not, given who seems to be behind all of this. First thing you see on the screen behind Caesar is a slide announcing the following show will be a mandatory viewing all across Panem. Odd, so you keep watching.

Next, you see your father’s name on his signature font and golden lettering following by his title as executive producer. It only adds to your confusion, brows furrowing as your eyes remain fixated on the screen. Your father is an all-too powerful media mogul whose name is attached to anything related to the games, but you still don’t understand why you’re there.

At least not until you see the name of this TV special. Inside Panem: Framing Diose Valey

What happens next is a blur. Two hours filled with memories you thought you had forgotten or wish you could forget. The list of little tidbits and scenes the people of Panem are presented with are as followed:

It all starts with your more than humble beginnings. Images of the run-down house you were born in are shown. You find out who your real parents were along with the rest of the country. A butcher and a seamstress. Both starved to death after after the Capitol left Ten with almost nothing to eat. all to celebrate Snow’s birthday. Your father doesn’t show it that way, but you are able to look past his tricks and propaganda now. 

He is an artist, painting the image of a perfect family. Her parents are heroes, saving a child from an imminent death and giving her a life she could have never dreamt of. If you didn’t know any better, you’d be touched. But you are that child, and you’ve grown up and realized you were nothing but a pawn. A tool to up their social standing, to improve their public image. Not that it matters now. Your father has done an incredible job making himself look like father of the year. And maybe a long time ago you genuinely believed that, but the more of this you watch, the less you’re inclined to give him or your mother the benefit of the doubt.

You grow up, flourish into a poised and beautiful young lady. But you’re still a child. Barely into your teens and already perfectly groomed to be just like your parents. It’s the Valey way. Why bother with a normal childhood when you ought to be busy aiming for greatness. Everyone loves you, lauds you. Great things are coming for you. 

Your debut  is a complete success. The younger stylist in the history of the games, it’s a great honor and your parents couldn’t be any prouder. From the get go, you demonstrate how talented you are. Despite your age, your creations are the best in the entire lineup. Many stylist didn’t want you there, thought you had only gotten a spot in the team due to your name. You proved all of them wrong. 

You are a child forced to grow up too fast, but why does that matter when you have a successful career and a thriving business. 

To you, the next scene doesn’t come as a surprise. More of your accomplishments are shown before you are forced to see a summary of the 55th games. You look away, not wanting to see Aven and what they did to Caspian, but your head is held in place by someone behind you. Your eyes begin watering as you see him take his last breath, covered in blood, his face unrecognizable. A makeup artist is ushered in and she pats your face with a tissue and fixes a makeup. Someone orders her to stay by your side, telling her that will happen again. That sounds like a warning. Not directed at her, but you.

Showing what became of Caspian right at the start is something you think was done on purpose. It makes it hurt more when images of you two appear on screen. Laughing, talking. Your father’s collection really has everything; he’s kept a close record of every single thing you’ve ever done. It enrages you when you replay your first kiss in the middle of a private fitting, the way Caspian caresses your cheek and promises he is coming back for you. It’s pure evil that you are forced to watch all of this, but you think it’s even worse every personal detail of your life is now being used to keep others entertained.

 Your father, always so careful about his image, does not show how he refused to keep him alive. Your mother’s punishment after his death is not mentioned either. Your trauma doesn’t matter.

After more images of the rest of your teenage years, your introduction into adulthood is shown and there is a shift in the tone of the program. Your innocent is now long gone. You’re a woman now, one that is perfectly aware of how to use her womanly charms to get what she wants. What your mother encouraged is now a bad thing. Unbecoming of a high society lady. Your behavior is a product of your own trauma, a combination of your mother meddling with your unresolved issues, using them to toy with your head and turn you into something cold and calculated. Having her tell you tears weren’t a woman’s only weapons was a recurring thing all through your life, but given that she is supposed to be the perfect mother, Panem doesn’t see that. 

Tiberius was a constant in your life for years. Not in the same way Slate was, obviously. You never shared your bed with him. You never schemed with him to cheat and favor your tributes. You never plotted to have nuisances murdered. Tiberius was the brains behind everything but the Capitol won’t let such a beloved figure like him see his legacy be tarnished, especially by the likes of a newly disgraced figure. Everything is blamed on you. Diose tricked him. Diose forced him to do this. Diose seduced him. Tiberius is innocent. It’s all bullshit, but you’re not innocent either. If there is something your father has proved so far, it’s that the best calumnies are spiced with the truth. 

You’ve left a sizeable list of victims. Some are dead, some were luckier, having only suffered by seeing their own reputations ruined by the great Diose Valey. This was something else your parents encouraged, but not it’s being used against you. You could argue that things are being taken out of context, but you did all of those things. You lied, you cheated, you killed. Not directly, but does that matter now? You’re heinous person, the worst Capitol has to offer. Why someone wanting to do good and change the system you’ve upheld and taken so much advantage of would trust you is a mystery. 

Your accomplishments are presented along with more of your escapades and intrigues. Death, suffering, greed. Diose Valey is nothing but an evil woman, a harlot desperate to amass as many power and money as she could No one saw it before, but thankfully this story has a hero. Minos Valey is here to open everyone’s eyes. He’s proved no one outside the Capitol should trust you, potentially destroyed the few alliances you’ve made, what else could he do?

Rebel sympathizers have more than enough reasons to hate you now that it’s been shown you’re the shining example of the sins and crimes important Capitoles have incurred in. They’ve always know they’re bad, but now your name is at the top of the list of the worst of the crop. 

Cut all ties. Despite everything, you’re not the only one with skeletons in her closet. There is still people out there stupid enough to forgive your sins because they don’t know any better. Everything you’ve done so far could be excused by saying you did it to continue protecting the values and principles of the Capitol. People have done worse and still came out of top, you could do it. Or could have, had it not been for the train.

You see Pista and you start screaming again. Caesar glances at you before he asks someone to gag you, your screams won’t let him focus and you’re giving him a headache. As per usual, the editing is top notch. Diose Valey, the perfect Capitolite, is now a heinous traitor. More of your words are taken out of context, a narrative crafted to make it all seem that your change of heart happened because you wanted to benefit only yourself. You were willing to destroy the people that gave you everything and turned you into what you are now. Murder can be excused, disloyalty and treason cannot.

Neither you or Pista did anything to hurt any of the Peacekeepers that stood in your way. Did you threaten them? Absolutely. But it was done to protect the man you forced to help you. An image of you attempting to intimidate a peacekeeper by telling them they don’t know who they’re messing is shown. You remember that. It happened. But the next bit revealing the bloody remains of the Peacekeeper you confronted was not your doing. Thing is, who would believe you at this point?

You’ve switched teams, seem content plotting against your current government. The sensitivity that came with your new goals is nowhere to be found. According to your father, all you’ve done after the train has the only intention of benefiting you. Selfish, entitled, spoiled. You will never change. 

He doesn’t misses the chance to embarrass you even further by letting the whole country be a witness to your outburst at the wedding along with you supposedly mistreating your poor mother after some heavy drinking. There is a new narrative line he is following, one you don’t quite understand until it’s explained how unstable you are. You’ve been kind enough to give him more than enough material to work with in the past few days. The awful behavior caused by your paranoia has been turned into a montage of Diose Valey’s worst moments. You’re an unhinged drunk now, an unruly and hysterical woman that can barely function because the weight of every bad thing she’s ever done is eating her up. You think she is being poisoned, people are ought to get you. The terrified faces of the avoxes tasked to care for you are shown in between shots of you screaming and destroying your suite. No mention of Slate’s disappearance and it being the cause of most of your lunacy is made. 

It should be all over now. The screen goes black, no one is talking. They’re all too busy looking at you in pure disgust. You’re given a three minute break before you have a camera pointed straight at your face. Another threat is made. The same man who’s been silently torturing you ever since he took you from your room shows you more pictures. Virgo, Robyn, Slate, Pista. That must mean he is still alive, but you’re not given any time to process this information. He doesn’t have to say anything for you to understand. You know how it all works. If you don’t comply, others will pay. A nod is given before the makeup artist fixes your makeup.

 The show is back on and a clearly glum Caesar comments on what all of you have witnessed. Everything is a shame, it’s all so sad. You were a role model, what happened? Please, as if this isn’t nothing more than a punishment. You’re being framed by your own father and every person in that room is a willing participant.

The interview part of the special doesn’t last very long, because it’s not actually an interview. It’s your father’s own clever way forcing you to confess. You get the privilege of being the final nail on the coffin you will be buried in. that is, if you ever get that. 

You blackmailed Tiberius, forced him to be part of your nefarious plans. Yes, you meddled with the games. We got a list of people who passed due to your doing, can you confirm it all being true? Fine, that one you can’t deny, even if everything is not what it seems. 

I cheated, I lied, I killed, I destroyed many families. You hate that you’ve been beaten at your own game, but there is nothing else to do. It’s either this or seeing those you love suffer. You tired of seeing people be affected by your actions, so you lie again let them pin every single bad thing that’s ever happened on you. 

Everything is almost over. You’re quite proud of yourself or avoiding crying. You were warned about having to look perfect, and you’ve complied with them again and again. No one else is getting hurt. Only you. But you’ve accepted it. 

Caesar goes on a spiel about your recent actions, questions your mental stability, though he is not talking to you, but to the camera. Another announcement is made. His voice is soft and sympathetic as he explains that given how clear it is you’ve gone beyond dangerously teetering on the edge of insanity and have clearly crossed it some time ago.

Do you agree? There is no answer from you. Well, as we all care so much about you, certain measures have been taken. Diose Valey, all your assets will be seized, put under your mother’s name.

Some more is said, a proper explanation is given in order to give viewers some context and explain what all of this means, but you stopped listening the second you understood you now have… Nothing. Your home, your business, your money. Without people to trust that was all you had to rely on, your only way of protecting yourself, but now you’ve got nothing. 

Your credibility is shattered. The alliances you’ve made on both sides, you fear, are certainly ruined now. All the information, connections, and secrets you’ve gathered throughout the years and could be used against them now are unusable. The Capitol has shown you the house always wins.

Everything is over and you’re dragged away. You’d scream, but it’s pointless. You’ve come to terms of what’s coming next. Because, there is nothing else they could do to you. Death, that’s it. You’ve been shamed and humiliated, tortured one last time before they get rid of you for good.

YOUNG & BEAUTIFUL — will you still love me when i’m no longer young and beautiful? will you still love me when i got nothing but my aching soul?

1:51 AM

You didn’t notice you were put to sleep again. You don’t understand why you’re still breathing, nor why you’re naked and tied to a table face down. Everything is pitch black until you manage to spot a very faint and orange light near you. You can’t make up what it is, not until it’s almost dangerously close to your face you can feel the heat whatever that thing is irradiates. 

ЯOTIAЯT

You’re so out of it. But then, you remember seeing those things before. Your father owned a customized branding iron he used to mark all of your horses with the Valey family logo. Everything clicks into place and you start screaming again just as more people come into the room, one of them holding you down as the tool is pressed against the back of your right shoulder. It’s past 2 am by that point.

All you remember is the smell of burnt flesh  before you pass out due to the pain.

4:29 AM

Beaten. Bloodied. The wound cauterized itself and that’s enough for them to be done with you. They’ve done a number to your face, and body. You can feel it in the soreness affecting you from head to tie, but you’re not concerned with that. It’s your shoulders that is killing you. You can still smell the burn flesh as well as the dried blood stuck to your skin all mixed in with the putrid scent of the garbage all around you. You don’t know what time it is, whether if the darkness you see is due to the time or being inside a garbage bin. 

You attempt to get out, but the pain on your shoulder is unbearable. It renders you unable to move enough to be able to do much. And when you attempt to use your hands, you notice them going numb, refusing to follow your orders.

Maybe you ought to stay there. Maybe now that they’ve taken your money and the allure that drove people to you, you’re finally right where you belong.

[ceo-caroline]

cracked open by gentle hands 

(tw for violence, implied ed, slight nsfw)

The apathy has molded itself to her by now, curled around and around her insides like a virus and settled. 

And it could be a curse, a slow descent into uncharted territory, but she feels as though she has gone through catharsis, really, has come out clean and holy, all of her old sins shoved into the glove compartment of her car where they rattle around with crumpled tissues and a pack of Lucky Strikes. 

That is what power does to an unloved woman, she concludes.

The first time Caroline saw the glass freshly installed in an observation room, she was stunned into silence. Crystal clear and shining from her end, clouded and dark from the view of the test subject. Perfect design. Just how I asked ‘em to do it, Cave had remarked proudly, rapping on it with a knuckle, and Caroline watched the man below them twitch at the noise. 

She chews aspirin like breath mints on the days that she supervises the testing track, staring fierce and sober at the little people walking willingly to their deaths for a check with a forged signature. And it is death, for so many of them. The public never hears a word but Aperture sees it all, the spinal fractures and the broken noses and the blood, all the gallons and gallons of blood, slick and shining and preserved behind the glass. We’re done here, Cave says to the corpses. Get someone to clean this up. 

There has to be a limit on the cleaning, she thinks, tasting powder as it hugs her tongue. These floors cannot stay white forever.

Cave makes sure that she remains pretty, at least. Sometimes she wonders if he thinks of her as a doll, dressing her up in a starched lab coat and pushing strands of hair back into place when they fall out of her braid. No scratches on the boss’s favorite. No blood under her nails, she has paperwork to file. 

He covets her like a prize, his doe-eyed, scowling woman. She thrives on a midday Jack and coke and his hand under her skirt after a meeting. He calls her good girl and keeps her tethered to his side sixty-five hours a week. Caroline allows him the satisfaction of her compliance. When she vomits after lunch breaks, as thick and sweet as cough syrup, it is in the ladies’ room one floor above his office so he never hears a thing. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” she says one evening, lying back in his bed. He shifts below her at the noise, his cheek on her upper thigh, one large hand wrapped around her calf. And she knows he’ll mistake her words because she twists them on purpose. He will think she means the praise, the money, the attention, though she is talking about the underside of it all, the fear and resentment and inability to face her reflection in the mirror.

“You’re smart, kiddo,” he rumbles in reply, his voice making something capsize deep inside her chest. “How many times do I have to tell you that before you start believin’ it?”

Caroline’s fingers still in his hair. She pulls him up over her, nails digging into his shoulders, whispers against his mouth low and honeyed, tell me one more time.

The woman is thirty-six and used to work in a cubicle in HR. They took away her ID and left an orange jumpsuit in its place, the empty promise of an “upgraded severance package” hanging in the air. Caroline watches her carry out the test, tapping her pen against the plastic edge of her clipboard in a restless cadence. 

When the cube dispenses, the woman stands rigid, thinking. Then in a series of fevered movements, she aims two portals, one directly across from the observation room, and throws the cube through with a force Caroline has not seen previously. A scientist yells behind her and she feels hands wrenching her out of the way right before the cube rockets through the portal and the glass shatters into thick slivers. A faux christening, Caroline thinks, blinking rapidly in the new brightness. The woman stares up at them in deranged satisfaction, chest heaving. 

The scientists are rendered useless, throwing curses back and fourth, shaking glass out of their notebooks. Caroline is bleeding from a cut beneath her eye. She steps forward, staring down like a king at their subject, like God at Man. 

Holy. She reminds herself, wiping the blood away. This is holy work.

“Have her sedated,” Caroline says, impassive. “And get someone to clean this up.” 

[megamegaturtle]

mon chou, mon chou, mon chou

pairing - draco malfoy/luna lovegood

raitng - m

words - 1,993 (complete)

summary - mon chou:1) A French term of endearment meaning honey or sweetie; literally translates to "my cabbage"2) The time Draco helps Luna steal cabbages from her neighbors

(For the Rare-Pair Judged by the Cover flash comp in the Dumbledore's Armada Discord; Prompt: Crimes and Cabbages; Winner for Host's Favorite)

ao3/ff.net

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

Magic thrives in the midnight hours when the world sleeps. Magic is at work, too, when Draco Malfoy knocks on Luna Lovegood’s door. He lingers on her doorstep, nerves fluttering under his skin like both butterflies and bats. Draco longs for fresh air that is not within Wiltshire. He longs for company that sees through him and what he could be rather than his past mistakes and follies.

Draco knocks on the door, the oak firm under his knuckles. The knob twists as if Luna had been waiting on the other side for him. She greets him with the same hospitality she would if she’d provided an invitation.

“I am torn between saying ‘good evening’ or ‘good night’ at this hour,” she muses with a smile. “But, hello, Draco.” Her voice catches between sleeping and awake.

He clears his throat before leaning on her door frame. “Fancy a walkabout, Lovegood?”

She nods and grabs her coat, granting his wish like a creature of the night. Luna leads him down a path only her feet have traveled.

The forest and moon witness them together, standing shoulder to shoulder with all the world’s creatures as their eyes. Down the path they wander, Luna’s hum filling the silence as she carries a basket at her side. They stroll passed a farmhouse before discovering a vegetable patch guarded by Britain’s loneliness scarecrow.

Luna does not fear scarecrows and enters to greet her old friend.  

There’s a hum in the garden and a dance in her step as she inspects the perfect cabbage. She kneels in damp soil and unsheathes her blade. She peels back the outer leaves with tenderness, pats the head, and kisses its forehead like a baby.

“One cabbage, two cabbages, where can I find you? Mon chou, mon chou, mon chou,” she sings, off-key, but sweet.

Draco watches from the edge of the cabbage patch, his dragonhide shoes free of any mud. Her footprints lay heavy in the soil, weaving between pumpkin vines and corn stalks, looping around large, midnight-colored aubergines.

The night stills, but watches with bated breath.

The moon swallows Luna, soaking her in silver. She wears the moonbeams like a cape. Bright blue eyes find his across the darkness, and he can see the smile in them. Eyes are windows to the soul, but Luna’s are only labyrinths.

Draco can’t find any scorn or malice in her mazes.  

“Cabbages don’t pick themselves, Draco,” she says, her voice drifting across the garden as if she speaks for it. Luna’s voice echoes from all corners and looms in his ears.

The soil squelches under his shoes, the sound reminiscent of spongy bodies and bloody puddles. But Luna beckons again and cares not what he remembers. Draco is at her side in fewer steps than he’d assumed, heart hammering out of sync as she serenades the cabbages.

“Three cabbages, four cabbages, oh how’d I’d like to know you. Mon chou, mon chou, mon chou.”

She saws the cabbage’s stem halfway before she snaps it free and the ringing crack reverberates in the air. She does not look at him as she moves onto the next one. It is a dance, the way she dips into a curtsy, her hand fanning out to her side as if she grabs the skirt of a ballgown. She sinks her knees into the soil again, unbothered by the moisture that sticks the fabric to her skin.

Draco sighs and charms his trousers so they don’t get wet. “Why are we stealing cabbages?”

Luna stops ruffling the leaves and gives him a sidelong glance. “Stealing implies we’re taking something that doesn’t belong to us.”

“Well, yes. The family that lives here might think we’re stealing their vegetables.”

She shrugs and returns to her work. “The fairies that live here said we could take whatever we need. They were here first.”

“And you always listen to fairies?”

“Yes. It’d be stupid to cross a fairy. They know things we don’t know. Wizards? We know just as much as them. More even.”

“Because fairies?”

She gazes at him, her head tilted to the side. “Oh, no, Draco,” she states simply, “it’s because you and I are intelligent.”

Draco nods but says nothing. Dirt packs under his fingernails. A rocky piece of soil pinches his skin. He pulls back the cabbage leaves in search of a head that’s smooth and green.

He watches her out of the corner of his eye as Luna walks further into the garden. She squats with some herbs and takes a sprig of mint. She holds it up to night sky, almost as if it is an offering to the moon who watches from her palace amongst the stars.

Draco isn’t sure when he came to her side again, but he was not called to be. He lowers himself beside her and plucks the herb from her hand, placing the sprig of mint behind her ear like a flower. Luna blinks with surprise, her hand gently touching the leaves as if rose petals.

“Thank you,” she whispers, wearing a faint smile. “This will help me keep cool.”

“Are you feeling warm?”

He tries to rest a hand on her forehead, but Luna jumps up and away, leaving Draco kneeling in the mud alone.

Her gaze is to the sky, her arms overhead as if she’s stretching. “Sometimes, I feel very warm when I’m with you. You take all the coolness when you occlude.”

The stare of the forest weighs heavily on Draco’s shoulders, the expectations haunting him from the shadows.

“All set?” he asks.

Luna fastens the buttons of her coat. “As a bone will ever be.”

The forest’s stare lingers as they walk along to Luna’s cottage. She still wears her spring of mint as if a treasured jewel. Her hum and their footsteps the only noise in the silence. 

She invites him inside as if he has always belonged inside her cottage in the dead of night. The moonlight pushes him forward and closes the door as he crosses the threshold. Together, they place their harvest on her modest table. A warm fire crackles in the corner.

They scrub their hands in more silence at her sink. A cauldron bubbles on her counter with a nondescript potion. It smells like springtime and fresh lemon despite that autumn is to be winter next month.

“You have not slept,” Luna says.

“You steal vegetables from your neighbors,” he replies.

“Only wizard neighbors. Fairies gave permission.”

Draco swallows. “Do I—can I—” he says, but then stops.

He closes his eyes and inhales. The warmth of the cottage settles into his bones. Luna taps the counter in a steady rhythm that soothes his heart. He opens his eyes and gives her a deprecating smile.

“What is the unknown?”

Her lips purse together, and she rests a hand on her chin. She does not blink when she answers, the universe wide in her eyes. “The absence of known, but it has its own siren call.”

He laughs. “What does that even mean?”

Her gaze softens. She steps closer. The moonlight filters through her window, and outlines of enchanted wings rest on her back. “It means that I forgive you and I want you,” she says. “It means your unknown is known.”

Draco stops breathing for a second, but then confidence awakens in his chest. “Does that mean I can steal a kiss, mon petite chou?” 

She chuckles quietly. “Stealing implies it’s not yours.”

In the moments that don’t add up, Draco crosses the arm’s length between them, kissing Luna on the mouth. She smells of mint and soil, but her touch is fire on his skin as she cups his face. He buries his fingers in her fine hair and their bodies meld together.

“Sleep with me,” she commands, and he obeys.

Like her muddy footprints, their clothes trail them as they make their way to her bed. He trips trying to get out of his trousers, and she is there to catch him with calm yet sturdy arms. They laugh as they fall into bed, her lips peppering his face with kisses. They are only vested in their undergarments.

He settles into the plush comforter, the scent of lavender encompassing them both. She leans over him, her hair a silky curtain that tickles his bare shoulder. Luna traces the soft skin under his eye. “I’m so happy that you’re here.”

He grasps her hand and kisses her palm. “You’re too good for me, Luna.”

“I am only as good as one’s idea of morality. To me, we are both good. I wouldn’t invite you in otherwise.”

Adoration wells in Draco’s chest, and he pushes himself up to kiss Luna again. He takes his time and savors each moment. There is no rush or need for frantic passion as his hands trail down the curve of her spine. He unclasps her bra and relishes in the feeling of her chest against his.

She giggles as he lightly glides his hand across the dip of her waist, but then he tugs her knickers off without a care in the world.

“Perfect,” he whispers with reverence. “Absolutely perfect.”

Luna does not hide her body and preens under the praise. Her fingers trace his forearm as she spreads her legs open. Her arousal perfumes the air.

“Touch me, please.”

In the soft glow from the moon, Draco teases her warm slit. His fingers slide inside her with ease, and there is nowhere more he’d rather be. He kisses her neck as he pumps his fingers inside of her, enjoying the way she moans. Her hand finds her clit, and together they bring her pleasure. She presses hard onto herself, her fingers moving in precise circles she’s traced a thousand times.

Draco matches her pace, the tension in the room mirrored in the locking bones of her body. Luna fucks herself on his fingers, and their hands bump into each other’s. She stops breathing, her back curving off the mattress. She smiles to the moon hiding behind the roof, her free hand intertwined with Draco’s. Her hips jerk, the tension of her body snapping as she rocks into his hand in a slowing descent. Her content sigh as she opens her eyes reminds him of a gentle breeze at the seashore.

With a breathy laugh, she reaches for him and palms his cock through his briefs. “Hi.”

He kisses her chest, sucks on the spot above her heart until he’s left a mark. Her fingers find his hair as he shimmies out of his pants. With a lightness that only comes with hearing Luna’s breath in his ears, Draco allows the warmth to encircle him as he enters her. He feels worthy of this moment, feels that he belongs to the witch beneath him.

Luna crosses her legs behind him and forces him to bottom out inside of her. She giggles as he groans into her neck, her hands gripping his shoulders to draw him closer. He rocks into her slowly, taking his time as the concept disappears. There is only now, only the feeling of Luna under him, meeting him stroke for stroke.

She touches herself again, blunt nails smooth against his cock as he fucks her. She squeezes tight, and Draco wonders if these are how constellations are made. Supposes the stars above come from moments where two people join as one. Her breath hitches again, her back curving. Her nipples skim across his skin.

“Draco,” she whispers, a ghost of a kiss on his shoulder.

Draco holds her tighter, finds her mouth to swallow her moans, steals her breath because she’s given it to him. He comes with her lips cool across his, her tongue soft and saliva sweet as she orgasms. He can feel her heart beating hard as he cuddles into her chest, finding home and purpose where his future has no crime, except for stolen cabbages.

[biteofwinter-archived]

𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂  𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑  𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒

𝐟𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐜.    leather, leather is practical and used for all sorts of things. it’s tough, it can be waterproofed, dyed and carved. besides practicality, leather is smooth however it shows its wear. it shows creases, cuts and nicks in the surface. leather is transparent, but it doesn’t falter just like alice. she shows her scars, her hurt and her weaknesses. she lives with them, however she doesn’t let them stand in her way and she is not defined by them. she also likes silk, and tulle. though less practical, she does have a taste for the finer things, the softer things.

𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭.    political science, although it may not be her most valued skill, alice is a listener and a debater. she enjoys the discussion and she enjoys politics. political science relies on knowledge of governments and the systems that make them work as well as human behavior. alice is a skilled observer and has used these skills to her advantage much of her life. political science is a study of power and it requires creativity and strategy.

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞.    fantasy, alice is a dreamer it’s as easy as that. she likes a mix of romance, political drama, crime and magic. she doesn’t like to be overwhelmed by it though, so she would prefer more ‘this could almost be real’ fantasy over high fantasy where a completely new world is built. she loves a good espionage/spy thriller as well. (this is a long way of saying that if six of crows was something alice could read she would be so in love with it)

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞  𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞.    adventurous and playful. there’s nothing more fun for alice than flirtation, teasing and the will-they won’t they dynamic. she likes when her love is reciprocated but she likes when she can have late night escapades, meetings down hallways and alleys. even in more developed relationships, she always likes to try new things, go on more out there dates and even be a little naughty.

𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫.    roses, in the most cliche way possible. alice is pretty from a distance but dangerous once one get’s too close. she feels claustrophobic when people get too close to her, especially on the isle, and tends to try and make people keep their distance by any means necessary even if it requires hurting them. the thorns come with the beautiful exterior, however with the right people she’ll allow them to be ‘clipped’ and let people get closer.

𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭.    earth, alice feels a connection to nature though until she left the isle this was numbed significantly as nearly all the nature found there was dying. earth also represents family and home, both things that alice values. she draws her power from surrounding herself with people she cares about and trusts, creating her own home and her own family.

𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐧  𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐞.    the woods, she likes the vastness of the woods and feels comforted in the trees. she doesn’t always feel at home, but she trusts in the natural world enough that she doesn’t need to. her favorite time to be out in the woods is in winter, when the ground is covered in snow and the world is quiet. it allows her time to think and to be exposed amongst the trees without feeling like she is in danger.

𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞.    sight and hearing, she wouldn’t be able to pick just one because she’d be lost without both. both skills are extremely valuable to her. they’re what she relies most on to survive on the isle and they are what she uses most to make a living. she trades in secrets and information after all. 

𝐦𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥  𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞.    the selkie, in celtic mythology the selkie are seals with the ability to transform into human. much of the lore surrounds stories of men taking the seal skin of a selkie woman and compelling her to be his wife, however the woman spends her life on land in captivity longing for the sea. while a bit of a stretch, alice was taken from her home in arendelle at a young age and essentially lived in captivity on the isle. she ‘shifted’ from princess to a common thief, but dreamed of life on the mainland.

𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫.   rain storms, the quiet downpours that start out of nowhere and soak you to the skin and leaves your clothes wet for days after. alice is the kind of person who leaves an impression once you’ve interacted with her.

𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞  𝐨𝐟  𝐝𝐚𝐲.   dusk, alice thrives in the half darkness. she moves between shadows easily and with skill. she also loves the sight, the sky looking like it’s on fire in brilliant shades before it all goes a deep midnight blue. dusk means alice’s day is almost over, she can return to her safe places soon, but the most important tasks are almost always left until dusk.

𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭.    mint. mint is homy, but it can be sharp and overpowering. in small quantities, mint is flirty and it is comforting. it’s recognizable and versatile. it’s not for everyone, but it is everywhere. it brings to mind images of water dripping off plants after rain, and pots of steaming tea inside during a storm.

𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐞.    garlic. garlic is one of those spices that people either love or hate. it’s scent is one that’s easy to recognize. it’s also one of the most commonly used spices. garlic is potent and it only takes a bit to make a dish taste good. it can be used in many different types of dishes as it is extremely versatile. alice is extremely versatile, much like garlic and she tends to be everywhere.

𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭  𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦.    a beam of light between buildings or between curtains, the kind that makes the dust dance in the air and the kind a cat might take a nap in. it feels warm, but there’s something distant about it as well. the light feels almost second hand, the source feeling so far away that it’s better just to look at the beam.

𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫  𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦.    ice, smooth and deceptive. its cold and dangerous. ice can be enjoyable, in drinks it keeps one cool in summer heat and it’s fun to skate on. it can also be treacherous. when the ice is two thin it can crack, and you can fall in and be sucked into the freezing water below. 

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭  𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐜𝐞.    her leather jacket, alice doesn’t seek out warmth often. this does not mean that she doesn’t seek out the comfort of warmth. alice’s leather jacket often makes her a little bit too warm, but the jacket serves her well. it protects her heart and her soul. it comforts her to be just a tad bit too warm.

𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.    quiet rage. alice’s anger is bubbling and it is part of every aspect of her life. her emotions are always just barely controlled. they are not hidden, they are sheltered. the world is sheltered from her. alice’s rage is her motivator, but it’s also her own biggest weakness. her rage might be her downfall.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.    vulpecula, in latin meaning ‘little fox’. the constellation is not named for any myths, however foxes are known to be cunning, independent and mischievous which are all traits alice exhibits. 

tagged  by :  @zzozo​

tagging : @hookd , @songeurame​ (micah) , @arthurjr​ , @cobrathieved​ 

[ravencromwell]

we grow not like a flower blooming, so what’s innermost becomes what’s outermost, but like trees, our earliest structures and twists shaping what comes after, hidden beneath the bark.

Sometimes I think we build time in order to escape that raw forever. Sometimes I think we spend our whole lives trying to get back there: chasing castles on hills and green lights at the end of piers and various visions of God. When you are caring for a child—and I think this is especially and particularly true when caring for your own child, in that daily, inescapable way I never managed when I was, for example, visiting with my sister’s children when they were young—you find yourself, every day, in their full and awake presence. And in the presence of what you were, when you were the seed crystal of yourself.

That sensation is… not always comfortable! Back then we were scared and back then we were hungry and back then we wanted as if there was nothing else in the universe and we couldn’t do anything about any of it, not because we were not strong or stable enough, or did not have enough fine motor control, or language, but because we did not quite yet know that these overwhelming feelings could pass, can pass, do pass. We did not know there was such a world as after. But also back then we could stare in awe, forever, at the underside of an iron table outside Au Bon Pain in Harvard Square, at the leaves and the sky through the diamond spaces between the metal. We could stare forever, even if we only stared for five minutes, or two—because the distinction between two minutes and five and forever was not so firmly wrought.

You start to see the children in other people, and in yourself. Humans on the whole seem less fundamentally good or evil and more tired, hungry, thirsty, asserting their independence from mommy / daddy / nurse, needing care, navigating this or that difficult transition, being unexpectedly, breathtakingly kind. It’s not like seeing The Matrix, this weird new vision doesn’t suddenly explain everything, and it certainly doesn’t excuse everything—one reason we try to help one another grow up is that a toddler with the tools of a grown being is a dangerous creature, to themselves and to others. But still, reading parenting books and connecting them with my experience, I gasp—the way you do when a physical therapist finds just the right place to push, or when the couch-and-chair kind of therapist asks just this one innocent question. Oh. Oh, that’s how it is.

Take transitions, for example. (This particular bit is from Tovah Klein’s How Toddlers Thrive.) Toddlers tend to have trouble with state transitions—from playing to eating, from eating to storytime, and of course the big transition to sleep. The problem is (Klein says, and I buy it) one of control, and time. We understand the now, we understand what is in front of us and around us. We understand that we are right here with a book or a toy sheep, and we are comfortable. Even when we don’t like the now, we know it. We can navigate.

The next, though, that’s a problem. That’s an issue. Who knows what happens next? Anything could be out there! In fact, the very prospect of next, the fact that there is such a creature, suggests that we don’t actually have as much control of now as we like to think. Next undermines us. So we cling to now. In those moments, it falls to the parents to help the child through the arc: begin with sympathy for the emotion—of course you want to keep reading, you were happy there, of course you don’t want to get up and sit down for a meal, of course, you have some measure of control and comfort in this moment in this uncertain world and you don’t want to go to bed, because who knows what happens tomorrow—and then, once sympathy and empathy have been established, offer structure. This is what we have to do now. And: continuity.

I’m still here for you. I love you.

So there I am, at my dining room table, reading this Tovah Klein book on a Sunday night, up too late, in the pandemic, still, not wanting to go to bed, because tomorrow I have to get up at six thirty if I want to write before parenting, and then there’s parenting, and then the same thing tomorrow, and the day after, and if I just stay here, reading about toddlers and their transition difficulties, I will know what’s going on, and be happy. And my chest is suddenly tight. Because I still don’t want to get up. Because who knows what comes next.

... This makes me think, too, about these little magic mirrors we carry in our pockets or pocketbooks or leave on the table in arm’s reach, about our phones, that is, about all the many ways they talk to us and remind us that they exist. I think about email and slack and SMS and the tweets and the facebooks and instagrams, how they’re always there, how unless we’re careful and clear in our boundaries, they never stop talking to us. I’ve read no end of “distraction crit,” those essays and eleven-chapter books about how what we really need is focus, freedom from the device’s interruptions. I eat that stuff like I eat Thin Mints—too many of them, too fast, because they feel too much like exactly what I want. I want to spend more time in maker time, I want to spend more time in Deep Work, in Flow. I don’t want to get Hijacked by Evolutionary Plains Ape Survival Strategies that don’t match with what I Need to Do as a Knowledge Worker in the Modern Economy.

But: maybe it’s not just the distraction. Maybe it’s not just the evolutionary plains ape whatever. Maybe the phone’s buzzes and dings and pop-up notifications offer not so much interruption as the promise of a life without transitions—a life without time. If we’re in some sense always on email, we never have to get off email and go do something else. If we’re always on Twitter, we never have to put Twitter away. No matter how awful we feel, we are always in that place, which means we always are. There we are seen, and remembered, and loved. However much we are, at the same time and in the same place and sometimes even by the same people and devices, hated.

Of course, your phone does not love you. But it can kick out a little picture of a heart every once in a while, which makes you feel good, because in second grade you cut one just like that out of a piece of rough red construction paper. We are not complicated creatures.

Often, a toddler doesn’t need more than a kiss. A word, a calming touch. To be lifted. To be hugged in a way that doesn’t make them feel they’re falling. “I know how you feel. I get it. I feel that way too sometimes. And we’re in this together.” “I love you.” “I’m right here.”

It’s shattering to realize how little we need, and how much.

--Max Gladstone: Under The Table, Inside The Tree

[politicaltheatre]

The Bill Comes Due

It’s been a long time coming.

For all of the performative shock and surprise at what was done yesterday at the United States Capitol building, this wasn’t one of those things nobody could have seen coming. Many did.

Perhaps they didn’t foresee a goon squad smashing their way into the building and carrying Confederate flags through its halls while they ransacked offices of senators and representatives, but they all had to know violence from these people was coming.

It’s not like they’ve been shy about it. Their entire identity, from what they wear to what they post on social media, is rooted in the use of violence as a means to an end, and, however those ends may seem a perversion of its notions of freedom and all men being created equal, as an American ideal.

So, yes, there is every bit a case to be made that Donald Trump, as well as senators Josh Hawley and Ted Cruz and representative Louie Gohmert, could have and should have known what the gasoline they were pouring on conspiracy theories would do, and if impeachment charges are brought against Trump in his last days in office, charges against those other parasites should be considered, too.

Ah, but before we go any further down that road - don’t hold your breath - let us consider this: This was not a coup. This was not an insurrection. This was a riot. Four people are dead, one of them shot trying to force her way into the House chamber, but this was no John Brown at Harper’s Ferry, let alone a cannon blast across the battlements at Fort Sumter. This was chaos, stupid and childish chaos, with no thought beyond getting inside.

For all of the alleged planning and coordination via social media apps - Parler, Gab, and Facebook - the scrum at and through the doors was followed not by occupation and demands but by selfies and trophy taking. That betrays a kind of short term thinking that would have doomed any attempt at an actual coup had any of them even gotten far enough to take hostages.

These were children acting out. That’s dangerous, very dangerous if those children have firearms and explosives, which some of these rioters are reported to have had, but a long term threat to the institutions of this nation this was not.

If there is a long term threat, and there is, it comes not from these particular buffoons but from those who have been and will go on using them for personal gain.

The list of names is long. Let’s start with Trump, Hawley, Cruz, and Gohmert. Let’s add to it those who signed on to their craven lies about voter fraud and respecting the concerns of “tens of millions of American voters”. To them, let’s add the names of everyone working for them who saw the lies for what they were and said nothing.

But why stop there? What about Mitch McConnell, who has profited both literally and figuratively from exploiting the same people he had egged on for weeks after the election? What about Paul Ryan, who with McConnell had exploited having Trump in office to pass tax cuts for the wealthy on his way out the same doors smashed yesterday? What about Newt Gingrich, who made toxic partisanship such a lucrative industry back in the 90s as Speaker of the House?

To those names let us add Karl Rove, who gleefully pitted poor whites against minorities and immigrants to elect George W. Bush, whose administration greased the skids for the one we have now? With Rove, let us remember his mentor, Lee Atwater, who used the “Southern Strategy” to elect Ronald Reagan and whose “Willie Horton” ads helped elect Bush’s father.

Include them, as we should, and we should also include Dick Cheney and Donald Rumsfeld, the Bush family consiglieri who got their start in Washington working for one Richard Milhaus Nixon, the man who popularized witch hunts, ratfucking, that same Southern Strategy, and, oh yeah, the Cheating Culture that tells us anything is acceptable as long as you don’t get caught.

It is that cheating culture that has spread like a virus through our economy and through our daily lives to a point where we don’t even think about it anymore. It’s just there, telling us that everyone else is getting away with it, telling us that there are two sets of rules, one for those with power and one for those without.

And maybe that’s true. If we allow it to be, it certainly is. So, add to that list the entire Democratic Party, which has passively and sometimes actively allowed corruption not only to persist but to thrive.

Let us also add our institutions for law and order, which yesterday once again demonstrated the stark difference between how non-violent, Black protesters are treated compared to violent, White rioters. Colin Kaepernick took a knee and has been unemployed for four years. How many covering that story at the time even bothered to ask what the response would have been had he been White?

So, too, let us add the news media, that until someone like Donald Trump came along seemed content with mere access, leaving too many questions such as that one unasked, and which, until far too recently, left far too many lies unquestioned.

This does include Fox News, of course. No, they and their new media spawn deserve a listing all their own. They were all created to cultivate a culture of haves versus have nots, to exploit fears and hatreds and divisions for profit. They succeeded too well. Their fingerprints are all over this.

Lastly, and we must, let us add our own names, for we have allowed too many to suffer and too many to live with injustice and without hope in too many communities in what is supposed to be a wealthy and powerful country, a “land of opportunity”, a “home of the brave”.

Those imbeciles attacking the Capitol building may be the worst of us, but they are of us. They are our neighbors. They are our countrymen and countrywomen. You don’t get to such a humiliating display in front of the whole world without a lot of time and effort. We have all actively or passively played our part.

There is a cost to everything. What may feel like good times for some may well come at the expense of others. For decades, this country has relied on a “dine and dash” approach to our economic and social lives. “Everybody’s doing it”, we’ve told ourselves. “Someone else will pay for it”, we’ve gladly heard. It buys us time not to act, not to risk what we have on behalf of others. It never lasts.

What we saw yesterday was how violence undermines those using it. Trump’s rats lieutenants are fleeing his sinking ship. Hawley, Cruz, and Gohmert lost support for their challenges, and perhaps for their 2024 aspirations. And rightly so. They all have built their political careers on exploiting imbalances of power for personal gain. It’s only fitting that they should suffer for it, too.

A system built on imbalances of power inevitably leads to conflict. How can it not? Conflict unresolved leads to violence. Hasn’t it always? There’s no mystery to it. They should have seen it coming. Maybe they did, but like so many of us they figured it wouldn’t affect them.

The bill always comes due.

The good news: Change is coming, too.

This was a week in which the state of Georgia elected not only its first Black senator but its first Jewish one, two freshly minted Democratic rock stars with the ability and platform to bring issues of injustice and the dangers presented by imbalances of power to national attention. They will.

This week also proved the power and promise of another rising star, Stacey Abrams, who in two years will very likely be the next governor of Georgia, and after that, who knows? Whatever she chooses to do, her messages of inclusion and accountability will carry greater weight, and we’d be wise to listen.

- Daniel Ward

[justcallmefox89]

Day Date

Jax has been in the Devildom for three months now.  They’re getting closer to their crush and thriving at R.A.D., but there’s something strange happening at House of Lamentation.  Jax enlists the help of their crush to get to the bottom of the mystery.

Written from the perspective of my non-binary OC Jax.

NSFW: mild make out/groping

My usual PSA - Always check in with your partner to make sure you’re on the same page sexually and emotionally.  Respect each other’s boundaries and nos.  Listening and communicating openly is one of the sexiest things you can do.  PSA over. :)

Finally a day off from R.A.D.  Maybe Arianthi can take me someplace new so I can sketch today.  

I pause and reconsider.  

Maybe not.  She’s been a little off lately.  Sad.  

I haven’t said anything to her yet, but I’m getting worried.

I wander through the House of Lamentation, looking for the girl who has become my de facto big sister.  I stop by the library first, but Satan is the only one there.

“Oh, hi Jax.”  Satan looks up from his book and smiles at me.

“Hey.  Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”  I smile back at him, happy to find him in an unusually good mood.  “I was just wondering if you’d seen Arianthi anywhere?  I can’t find her.”

Satan’s smile vanishes and his shakes his head.

“Maybe she’s with Mammon?”  I try hopefully.

Satan scowls.  “He didn’t come home last night.  He’s on another gambling streak.”

It’s been like this for the past four weeks.  What is going on with those two?

Arianthi and Mammon have gone from being inseparable to barely speaking to each together.  He’s been spending more time away from home, drinking and gambling, while Arianthi has thrown herself into her work at R.A.D., spending more time with Diavolo and Lucifer.      

“Again?”  I start chewing on the inside of my cheek, upset.  “I know it’s not really my business but I’m starting to get -”

“Worried?”

I nod.

“I am too,” Satan admits.  “Even Levi has noticed something isn’t right.”

Shit.  

When the ever oblivious otaku who barely leaves his room notices something is off, the situation is really fucking bad. 

“She hasn’t been sleeping in their room either.”  Satan drops another knowledge bomb on me.

“What?”  I feel my eyebrows raise.

“Beel said he’s been finding her sleeping on the couch in the living room.  And last week Lucifer found her sleeping in that room she and Mammon were renovating.”  Satan frowns.    

I feel my face scrunching up in confusion.  “But there’s no furniture in there right now.”

A month ago Mammon and Arianthi had moved her private office into another vacant room in the house and started renovating the empty room.  I had helped her paint it and refinish the woodwork.

He just raises his eyebrows and shrugs.  “She was sleeping on the floor.”

“Well fuck,” I mumble.

Satan nods.  “Exactly.”

“She hasn’t said anything to me about what’s going on.  Has Mammon said anything to you?”

“Not a word.”  He shakes his head.

“I’m going to try to find her, maybe drag her out of the house today.  If she’s not working.  On her day off.  Again.”  I let out a deep sigh.

He smiles at me wanly.  “I hope it works.  I think she’ll listen to you more than us at this point.”

“Message me if you see her?”

“Absolutely.”

I continue searching, poking my head in Levi’s room, checking the kitchen, even going so far as to pester Lucifer while he’s in his bedroom.

“Have you checked their bedroom?”  He suggests.

“I-”  Damned if I’ll admit I’m a little afraid to.

“Would you like me to accompany you?”  Lucifer offers begrudgingly.

“Yes please!” 

A few minutes later Lucifer pushes open the door to Arianthi and Mammon’s bedroom.  We stand in the doorway silently, craning our necks to examine the space.  

“It appears neither one is here,” Lucifer finally states the obvious.

“Satan said Mammon didn’t come home last night.”

Lucifer makes a tch sound of disapproval low in his throat.

“Arianthi didn’t go into work today did she?”  I try not to get my hopes up.

Lucifer shakes his head.  “I already messaged Diavolo.  He hasn’t seen her.”

We both eye the door to the next bedroom then look at each other, playing a telepathic game of rock, paper, scissors.  By benefit of being frightening as hell, Lucifer wins.

Damn.  

I take the few steps to the next room over and rap on the door softly.  When there’s no response I quietly ease the door open.  Arianthi is sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the far wall, looking off into space.  

She gives me a soft smile when she finally notices me.  “Hey you.  I haven’t seen much of you lately.”

“You’ve been working a lot with Diavolo and Lucifer on the exchange program,” I respond.

A pink blush dusts her cheeks and she looks at me guiltily for a moment.  

“How are your classes going?”  She finally asks.

“Good.”  I amble over to her and sit down.  

We stay silent for awhile, both of us lost in our own thoughts.  I look around the room that just a month ago we had lovingly re-painted.  The walls were now a soft mint green, the woodwork at bright, pure white.  

Finally Arianthi turns to me with a mischievous smile, looking like her old self.  “Sooooo............ how are things with Beel?”

I can feel the heat in my cheeks from my blush.  “Fine.  Good.  Ok.  Things are ok.”

She arches one eyebrow at me.  “Just ok?”

“W-w-well, I mean, we’ve been hanging out a lot.  We’re good friends.”

“Just friends?”  She grins at me knowingly. 

“For now,” I mumbled.  “Maybe.  Hopefully.”  I heave a sigh.  “I like him.  A lot.  But he’s also become one of my really good friends since I’ve been here and I don’t want to take a chance on messing that up, you know?”

“I get it,” she says, nodding.  “What happens if you do take a chance and he wants the same thing you do?”  

I stare at her like a deer in the headlights.  

“Oh come on!”  Arianthi knocks her should into mine.  “You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about what it would be like to date Beel.”

I open and close my mouth a few times.  

Of course I have.  I also have realistic expectations.  

She rolls her eyes and looks at me in disbelief.  “You are one of the most confident people I’ve ever met.  Why does that completely disappear when you’re around him?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter, closely examining the carpet.

“Maybe because he’s different?  Maybe because you think there’s a possibility of there being something real there?  Like a real deal, shoot for the stars kind of love?”

“I hate it when you’re right,” I say sullenly.  “I won’t say love, I can’t say that yet.  I know he’s special though.”

She knocks her shoulder into mine again, raising her eyebrows at me. 

I swat at her, laughing.  “Cut it out.”

“I’m just saying maybe it’s time to jump in the pool.  Get your feet wet.  Splash around a little bit.”

I roll my eyes and huff out a low laugh.  “I’ll think about it.”

Arianthi raises her hands and smiles.  “That’s all I ask.”

“Speaking of asking things......” I trail off and give her my best puppy dog eyes.  “Could you maybe, possibly, venture out into nature with me today?  Help me scout out some new places to sketch?  Pretty please?”

Her smile instantly disappears, replaced by the stoic mask I’ve come to know all too well over the past few weeks.  

“Um, I’m not feeling that great today hun.  I think I’ve been working too much.”  She gives me a sad smile.  “Maybe another time?”

“Oh.  Alright then.”  I try hard to mask my disappointment.  “Another time.”  

I start to push myself off the floor, but she grabs my arm.

“Wait!  I’ve got a great idea.  Why don’t you ask Beel to take you?  There’s a really pretty lake in the forest I think you’ll like.  He’s knows the way and I bet he wouldn’t mind.”

“I-I wouldn’t want to bother him,” I stammer.

“You wouldn’t,” Arianthi says, smiling.  “I’m sure he’d be happy to have a hiking buddy.  And I know he likes spending time with you.”

“You think so?” I ask hopefully, blushing a little. 

“I know so.”  She pauses.  “There’s even a picnic all packed up in the kitchen you guys can take with you.”

“Is this all an elaborate set up to bring me and your future brother-in-law together?”  I eye her suspiciously, then grin.  “Because if it is I accept.”

“Kind of,” she admits sheepishly.  “Mammon and I were supposed to go out to the lake today, to get some time alone together.  He, um, he didn’t come home last night though.”  

Her smile wobbles a bit.  “I don’t want to waste the food or anything, so I’d like you and Beel have it.  You guys can have some time to yourselves, and you’ll be able to sketch something new.”

“Oh man,” I sigh and give her a small squeeze.

“Oh god, I’m getting a pity hug.”  Arianthi gives a shaky laugh.

“I can stay here if you want,” I offer, worried about her.

“No!”  She gives me a small push.  “Go.  Be free.  Chase your tall, muscular, ginger dream.”

“I hate you,”  I say, laughing, and stand up.

“I love you too.”  She smirks at me.

I start to leave the room, then pause in the doorway.  “You sure you don’t want me to stay?  Or you can come with us?”

Arianthi makes a shooing motion at me.  “I’m sure.  Now go, get your man.”

I narrow my eyes her.

“Really!”  She insists.  “I’m fine.  Go get Beel and enjoy yourself today.  I’ll see if Asmo wants to have a spa day or something.”

“Ok.”  I grin at her.  “Thanks for this Arianthi.”

“I told you on day one that I had your back.”  She returns my grin.

“I appreciate you!”  I say as I leave the room.

“You better!”  She calls out.

I walk down the hall towards the room Beel and Belphie share.  I knock twice and wait until I hear a sleepily mumbled, “Come in.”

I slip inside and scan the room for Beel.

“He’s in the bathroom,” Belphie mutters out from under his pile of blankets.

“Oh.  Sorry, I can go.”  I turn to leave.

“Nah, hang on a second,” Belphie says.  “Hey Beel!  Your Jax is here!”  

Your Jax?  Sounds good.  Very into it.

Beel comes out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a pair of low slung shorts, toweling his hair dry.  He flashes me his signature adorable grin.  “Hey Jax.”

“H-h-hey,” I stutter, flustered by his abs and wide expanse of muscular chest.

“What’s up?”

“Uh, um....”  I blank.

Belphie bails me out.  “Usually when someone comes looking for another someone that first someone has a question for the second someone.”  

He gives me a sardonic smirk while Beel looks on in confusion.

“Y-yeah.  Right.”  I shake myself a little.  “Um, Beel would you wanna go to the lake with me?  For a picnic?  I was wanting to sketch a little, and I thought it might be nice if we maybe went together......”  I trail off.

“That sounds like fun,” Beel says happily.  “Give me a minute to get dressed?”

I nod, smiling.  “Wanna just meet me in the kitchen?  I’ll get the food ready to go.”

“Sounds good.”

I quickly leave the room and head to the kitchen, feeling grateful when Levi is the only one who catches me skipping with joy down the hallway.

There are two large, insulated picnic baskets sitting on the kitchen island, just like Arianthi said there would be.  I double check my backpack, making sure I have everything I may need.  Suddenly a large hand comes down on my shoulder and I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Sorry!  I didn’t mean to scare you,” Beel says, sounding apologetic.  

His breath is warm against my ear and a shiver races down my spine.

“It’s ok,” I tell him, leaning into the warmth of his hand.

He hums happily and drops a kiss on the top of my head.  “Ready to go?”

My brain short circuits at the feel of his lips.  “Uh-huh.”

“Ok.”  He grabs the picnic baskets in one hand and holds the other out to me.

I stare at his hand.  

Really?  Does he really want me to?  Ohmygod ohmygod.  Get a fucking grip Jax.  You’ve held a guy’s hand before.

Beel blushes and drops his hand.  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he mumbles.

“I want to!”  I reach out and grab his hand, smiling up at him.  “I want to,” I repeat.

He looks down at me and grins shyly.  “Let’s go.”  

He tugs gently on my hand and we leave the House of Lamentation.  

After 45 minutes of trudging through the woods Beel leads me to a gorgeous lake, surrounded by trees and wildflowers I’ve never seen before.  He finds a large, clear patch of grass close to the lakeside and we kneel down, opening the picnic baskets.

We find a big, soft blanket and he spreads it out while I pull out plates, silverware, and cups.  

“Wow, she went all out.” I murmur, pulling a bottle of champagne out of the basket.

“Mmm?”  Beel turns towards me.

I show him bottle.  “Arianthi went all out.”

“She did all this?”  Beel looks at me in bewilderment.

Oops.  Beans spilled.  

I sigh.  “Arianthi put all this together because Mammon said they would come here together today but-”

“He’s not home.”  He finishes my sentence.

“She didn’t want it to go to waste so she thought we might like it,” I mumble, my shyness suddenly returning.

“I’m glad,” Beel says softly.  “I’m not glad Mammon didn’t come home for their date,” he quickly amends.  “But I’m glad I get to spend time alone with you.”

“Me too,” I say, grinning at him.  “I’m just going to have water.  Do you want any of this?”  

I offer him the bottle of champagne.

He shakes his head, pulling out a container of sliced fruit.  “Just water is good.”  

He pulls out another container.  

“Oh she made peanut butter cookies!  I hope she made turkey sandwiches with the spicy mustard and that one special type of cheese she brings back from the human realm.....those are Mammon’s favorite.  I bet she did......”

I chuckle as he eagerly roots through the baskets, excitedly commenting on each new container of food he pulls out.  I discreetly pull out my sketchbook and pencil.  His face, his smile, his pure unadulterated joy; I want to always be able to remember that.  

It’s been a long time since I’ve been around someone who gets genuine happiness from such simple things.  It’s nice.  

I hum to myself, sneaking looks at Beel as he sprawls out on the blanket, sandwich in hand.

I sketch for a few minutes in silence.  Suddenly, crumbs fall onto my sketchbook and I flick them away in irritation before snapping my head up to look directly into Beel’s eyes.  

“Hi,” I breathe.

He studies my sketch.  “Are you drawing me?”  

He smiles in delight before he takes another bite of his sandwich.

“It’s not done yet.”  I hastily flip the page and shove the sketchbook back into my backpack.

“Will you show me when it’s done?”  

No.  Of course not.  Absolutely no.  Never.  

“For sure.”

Beel reaches into a picnic basket and hands me a sandwich.  “Um, you should eat something before it’s all gone,” he says shyly.  

He quickly puts some chips, fruit, and a cookie onto a plate and shoves it towards me.  “I don’t want to eat all of it before you get a chance to have anything.”

Oh.  My.  God.  My.  Heart.  It can’t take this.  He’s too pure.  Too cute. 

We eat in silence for a while, enjoying the sunshine and the cool breeze blowing in from the lake, before I work up my courage.

“Hey Beel?”

“Mmm?  What’s up?”  He mumbles around a mouthful of chips.  

“Can I ask you something?”

He nods, cramming the last part of his fifth sandwich into his mouth.

“Do you know what’s going on with Mammon and Arianthi?  Did they get into a fight or something?”  I hold my breath, hoping he doesn’t thinking I’m prying too far into his family’s business.

Beel slowly takes a sip of his water, thinking.  “I don’t know what happened,” he finally admits.  “But one night last week Mammon came home so drunk he could barely get in the front door.  I was in the kitchen and I heard him.  I carried him to their room so he wouldn’t wake everybody else up.”

Come on cutie pie.  You’ve gotta give me more than that.  We all know he’s been drinking way too much lately.

“Arianthi wasn’t in their room so I put him in bed.  He started crying when he figured out she wasn’t there.”  He pauses, looking uncertain.  “Jax you have to promise you won’t tell anyone else this.”

“Of course.  Not a word.”

“He told me Arianthi called off the wedding.”

“What?!”  

Beel winces.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry.  She hasn’t said anything to me about it.  Are you sure that’s what he said?”  I ask.

He nods sadly.  “I don’t know what happened, but they’re both miserable.  That’s why Mammon has been going out so much.”

I eat a chip, thinking.  “Is it always like this when they fight?”

Beel looks scandalized that I’d even suggest something like that.  “They don’t fight.  Ever.”

I snort in disbelief.  “Every couple fights Beel.”

“They don’t.”  He pouts.  “They have only had one fight, and that was before they started dating.  And it led to them getting together.”

I fight the urge to kiss that cute little pout off his face.

“Ok, maybe it wasn’t a fight then.  What else would make them upset with each other?”  I’m stabbing in the dark now, anxious to nail down the problem.

Beel shrugs and takes a bite of an apple, chewing thoughtfully.  

“Well,” he says after he swallows, “this all started about a month ago right?  So what was happening then?”

I shake my head and eat another chip.  “Nothing.  Just classes.  Arianthi’s work schedule was still normal.  She didn’t start working so much until after........”  

The light bulb clicks on and my stomach drops a little.

“After what?”

“Remember when Mammon and Lucifer went to the human realm for a week to run some errands for Diavolo?”

“Yeah,” Beel says.  “Mammon whined until Lucifer gave in and let him tag along.  So?”

“They quit talking and started acting weird right after Mammon and Lucifer got back,” I say slowly, hoping he realizes what I’m hinting at so I don’t have to come out and say it.  

That would be a surefire way to torpedo this perfectly nice afternoon.

Beel looks at me blankly, waiting for me to connect the dots.  

Shit. 

“Do you think that there could be a chance that maybe Mammon did something on that trip that was a deal breaker for Arianthi?  Something bad enough for her to want to call off the wedding?”

He scowls at me.  “What?  Like cheating?”

Afternoon torpedoed.

“I don’t know Beel,” I sigh.  “That’s the only thing I can think of that would be bad enough that she wouldn’t want to marry him anymore.”

Beel opens his mouth to protest but I interject.

“Come on Beel.  You know I’m right.  She puts up with the witches’ pacts, and the get rich quick schemes, and the gambling, and the debts, and even the stealing to a certain extent.  She’s been ride or die for him the entire time I’ve been here.  Why would that change all of the sudden?”

He deflates a little.  “He loves her so much.  I really don’t think he would do that.” 

My next question causes my chest to tighten.  “Do you think Arianthi would....?”

Beel’s eyes widen in shock.

“I’m just asking!”  I hold up my hands to placate him.  “I really don’t think she would either, but I know she has history with Diavolo.  Do you think maybe Mammon just misinterpreted something?  Heard a rumor and ran with it?”

He shoves a cookie into his mouth and looks at me as he chews, considering.

“She wouldn’t cheat on him.  He wouldn’t cheat on her.  I know it.”  He gobbles down another cookie.  “I really think if Mammon heard a rumor or saw something he didn’t like they would have talked it out.  At the very least we would have known about the fight.  Mammon’s not exactly quiet.”  

He smirks at me.

“True,”  I agree with him.  “If they had a fight at the House of Lamentation we definitely would have heard it.”   I sigh in defeat.  

Beel reaches over wraps an arm around my shoulders, cuddling me against his chest.  “What’s bothering you?  Beside them not talking to each other?”

I open up to him, soothed by his warmth and the feeling of his body next to mine.  

“I don’t know.  They were just so happy.  And now they’re not even talking.  Arianthi is working herself into the ground and Mammon’s partying it up.  I know something bad happened.  I know it.  But they’re just avoiding it and it’s not making anything better.  They were too happy and too good together to just give everything up like that.  When you have something that great you don’t just throw it away over something stupid.  You hang on to it as tight as you can.  There’s too much bad stuff in this world to just give up something that makes you genuinely happy.”

His arms tighten around me and he presses a kiss to my temple.  “Ok.”

“Ok?  That’s it?”  I’m flabbergasted.  

I feel him shrug.  “You’re right.  I’ll help you figure out what going on, and then we can try to get them to talk to each other.”

“Really?”  I twist in his arms so I can look at him.

He smiles down at me.  

“They’re my family and them being happy makes me happy.”  He pauses.  “Plus, it would make you happy too.  And I really, really like it when you’re happy,” he whispers.  

I tilt my head back a little and look up into his big violet eyes.  Beel reaches out and cups my jaw with one large hand.  He leans towards me slowly, lips slightly parted.

I let out an involuntary sigh when he tenderly presses his mouth against mine.  Warm, full lips part mine and he gently strokes my tongue with his.  He eventually pulls away with a slight giggle.

“That tickles,” he murmurs, running his thumb softly over my lip ring. 

“That’s not the only piercing I have that will tickle,” I whisper, shocked at my own confidence.

Beel’s eyes widen in surprise, then roam over my body hungrily.  He surges forward, kissing me again with increased urgency, hands running up and down my sides.

I moan softly when my tongue touches his and he grips my sides tighter.  His fingers grab onto the belt loops of my jeans, and he tugs me onto his lap. 

I panic a little and scramble back slightly so that I’m awkwardly straddling his knees.  

Oh fuck.  We haven’t had this conversation yet.  What if he’s not in to it anymore once we do?

“Are you ok?  Did I do something wrong?”  Beel asks, looking concerned.

I shake my head.  “No.  It was......awesome actually.

He smirks and reaches for me.  “Then come back here.”

I lean out of his reach.  

“Um.  Ok.  Well, here’s the thing.  We haven’t really talked about ........certain stuff.”  I blush and gesture at myself.  

Fuck.  

I look down at the ground, mortified.  

The timing of this fucking blows.  

Beel puts one hand on my hip, and uses his other to tip my chin up so I’m looking at him.  

“It’s ok,” he says quietly.

I look at him stupidly, not quite understanding.  

“It’s ok if you want to stop,” he says, then pauses for a moment.  “But everything else is ok too.  I’m ok with all of it.  With whatever.”  

He gives me a pointed look.

“Yeah?”  I whisper, feeling extremely shy.

He nods.  

“I like you because you’re Jax, not because of your body.”  He flushes scarlet.  “I-I-I mean, I do like your body.  And I think you’re really cute.  B-but it’s not all I like.  I like who you are more.  That’s what matters to me most,” he says, stammering a little.

Bolstered by his confession I scoot up until I’m straddling his lap, looping my arms over his shoulders.  

“Is this ok?”  I ask, a little unsure.

“Very ok.”  He wraps his arms around me and leans forward, giving me the gentlest of kisses.  

“Mmmm.”  I deepen the kiss.  He tastes like peanut butter cookies and something uniquely Beel, and I can’t get enough.

I nip lightly at his lower lip, gratified by the way he gasps into my mouth and the way his hips jerk up to meet mine.

One large hand slips under my shirt, his blunt nails tracing the lines of the muscles of my chest and stomach.  I whimper his name, my thighs tightening around his hips.  He huffs out a low laugh and presses a kiss to my neck. 

Beel kisses and licks a trail up to my ear, nibbling on my earlobe.  “You taste amazing,” he whispers into my ear.

I shiver at the feel of his breath and the sound of his deep voice.

“I wanna make you do that again.”  He mouths at the sensitive point below my ear and slips one hand between us.  

“Holy fuck,” I whimper when he cups me through my jeans and palms my erection. 

“That is such a pretty sound Jax,” he mutters, before claiming my mouth again.  

I arch against his hand as he continues to tease me through the thick fabric of my jeans.  I finally break the kiss, panting a little.  Beel’s mouth moves to my neck, dropping kisses down to my collarbone.

I manage to get my brain back online long enough to squeak out a request.  “Beel?  Can we slow down a little bit?  Please?”

His hand automatically stills and he moves his head up to look directly into my eyes.  “Whatever you want,” he says, nodding.  

I sigh and lean forward, resting my forehead against his.  “Thanks.”

Beel starts to say something, then hesitates.  “Did it.....did it not feel good?  Did I do too much?  I just want to do what you like Jax.  And for you to be comfortable.”

“It felt amazing,” I murmur.  “I just, I like you a lot and I don’t want to rush anything.  You’re really special to me.  I wanna take things slow and keep getting to know you.  Is that ok?”

He smiles at me sweetly.  “Yeah.  Yeah, it’s ok.  You’re special to me too.”  He suddenly frowns.  “Can I still kiss you sometimes though?  Because I really, really like kissing you.”

I laugh and kiss his forehead.  “Yeah.  Kissing is good.  Let’s just chill on the other stuff for now though, alright?”

He hums happily and kisses my cheek before falling backwards, pulling me with him.  We tumble onto the blanket, laughing.  

Beel pulls me close and tucks me securely against his side, resting his cheek on top of my head.  “Is this ok?”

“This is perfect,” I say, snuggling closer to him.

We spend the rest of the afternoon talking and cuddling, occasionally trading soft kisses.  We head back to the House of Lamentation as the sun starts to set.  We part ways at the kitchen; Beel goes off to find a snack and I go back to my room.  

I flop onto my bed and pull out my D.D.D., quickly composing a message to Arianthi.

The picnic was AMAZING!  I owe you so big.  How was the spa day?  Come to my room if you want to talk later.

I toss my D.D.D. onto my pillow, then reach for one of my textbooks.  I spend about twenty minutes muddling through the finer points of ward magic before I message Arianthi again.

Ward magic is haaaaarrrrddddd.  Come help me please?  

I would ask Satan, but he sort of scares me.

Another twenty minutes passes and Arianthi still doesn’t respond.  Which is weird, because she’s the type of person who responds to texts immediately. 

I stand up and toss my book onto my bed, deciding to just go see if she’s in her bedroom.  

And if she’s not there I’ll check Asmo’s room.   

I open my door and jump a little when I see Beel standing there, hand poised to knock. 

“Hey.  Miss me already?”  I tease him and smile.

“Asmo just called me,” he says, looking unusually serious.  

“Is he ok?”  I ask, worried.

“He’s out on a date with Solomon and he said Mammon just walked into The Fall.”

I can feel my eyebrows draw together.  “I thought Arianthi was with Asmo.  She said something about a spa day when I talked to her before we left this afternoon.  And she’s not answering her D.D.D.”

Beel shakes his head, getting more agitated by the second.  “I don’t know.  I just know what Asmo told me.  He said Mammon’s really drunk and starting to cause problems.  Asmo and Solomon can’t get him to calm down.  I need to go get him before he causes more trouble and Lucifer finds out.”

“What can I do?”  I ask without stopping to think.

He hesitates, biting his lower lip anxiously.  “Would you come with me?  I don’t want to do this by myself.”

I reach out and grab his hand, lacing his fingers with mine.  “Let’s go.”

He smiles at me in relief and tugs on my hand, starting to walk to the front door.

Ok Mammon, time to figure out what’s going on with you.

[marshmallowprotection]

Saeran’s Passport Package

I’ve been waiting since the 19th to get my hands on this baby and I’m glad that it got here today. It took me a little bit to sit down and go through everything cause I wanted to cry about it the entire time. 

Spoilers Ahead, everyone. So, if you’re not interested in seeing what’s in the Passport set AFTER the events of Saeran’s After Ending, then do not click Read More, got it? I’ve made it clear to you. I will say that it’s worth the money if you’re debating buying it. 

So, we can go over the contents in the box, first as an overview. You receive a letter stamped with a cute sticker as well as the passport itself which holds the notes that Saeran’s been taking and drawing since this all started. I just think that’s cute. My brain said don’t open that passport until we review the letter first so, why don’t we go over the letter first? The little details are really cute. There’s just so many stamps on this baby. 

The little touches are what sell it. You’ve got this man putting his love all over it and there’s a CUTE NOTE of CATS. Sir, was that a touch to Saeyoung? I know you know that your brother is a dork. Homage to brother who is an idiot but too glaringly obvious. It got a chuckle out of me. I know this man, and it’s just getting to me. 

The passport itself is also really cute. It has the art from the promo banner but instead of everyone hustling around together, there’s new poses and all of that jazz. Jaehee isn’t rushing around. Zen’s got a selfie stick, no surprise on that front. Jumin just chilling. Seven and Yoosung... doing what they do best and you know it. RUN, YOOSUNG, RUN.

Saeran and MC... being cute on the inside made me go, “Aw!” Ice cream. They can really just put ice cream and it’s going to make me cry, huh? Really? Is that how easy this is? Am I a joke to you, Cheritz? Is that what this is? 

Now, if you want to talk about the contents in the letter, you get this sheet that is listed in three languages, surprised me, Korean, Spanish, and English, and it lets you tick off little things that you like to do. An itinerary sheet. I feel like this is purely Jumin crafting these. It asks about Cats. Literally. Cats. Wine? Yeah, this is on Jumin. You always come in flex, Jumin, but oh boy, I’m chuckling over here at these little touches. 

You get 2 boarding passes. One with Saeran’s name and one with a blank to fill in your name. I thought that was cute. Tying in that with the CG of the passes in the game with this just makes it more real to me. I’m holding this in my hands and it just makes my immersion feel much more real than it did when I was holding my phone in my hand and playing this out. 

I think merch like this just makes you feel more apart of the story then you do when you’re able to talk and chat, you know? If you really like feeling like you are involved with the game, this is how you do it. You wanna know how I know that Jumin is the one setting this up with Saeran? Flip over the fucking passport and you realize that Elizabeth is on the back.

I’m still laughing. 

I’m trying to imagine this and now, like, I’m starting to see why Jaehee is so damn tired because Elizabeth really is on everything that he can get his hands on and she’s good too many files to sort through when it comes to whatever the photographers take of her. Jumin can’t take photos. He’s either got Jihyun to do this for him at some point, or he’s straight up hiring photographers for her cause he can’t do it. 

I mean, we all know that Jumin will put Elizabeth everywhere but I just— It’s on the BOARDING PASSES? JUMIN! 

There’s also a postcard within the letter that is once more, written in all three aforementioned languages. Saeran says that it feels like a dream when he is with you, like this is where he’s always meant to be. His promise of happiness is made truest when he’s with you. I teared up a little. I know that he means well when he does that but damn, does it take an arrow to the heart every single time he does it. 

Saeran put a lot of thought into this in a very short amount of time. I know that he did this plan likely with the idea that he may not be able to go with us but he wanted us to be able to see the world for him. You know, how he implied that he wanted Saeyoung to see things for him? To live for him? Even if he was dead, he wanted Saeyoung and the player to be happy and free. 

The blurred state on those... doesn’t have names. It doesn’t name Saeran in this photo. 

The implication of his sacrifice with the boarding passes kind of hurts because this is a side note of the fact that Saeran Did Not Know If He Would Live To See This Through. He made it thinking maybe.. if things worked out, it would be an okay future, but this was... God. I just. I’m thinking about the weight of the AE and what that felt like. I almost glossed over the Boarding Pass because I was just so upset with him.

I’m the type to try to sacrifice myself for others, too. I have that in common with Saeyoung and Saeran. 

I think that we’d argue over who should die for the others and while that’s macabre, it’s just the kind of people that we are. We love these people so much that we’re willing to die if they’re safe and sound. Knowing that, I understand what Saeran tried, and even what Saeyoung tries, but it’s hard cause I want to make sure they’re happy in comparison to myself. 

This is where being selfless is a bad thing. 

Does anyone know what a big deal it is for Saeran to have a passport? He’s never had an ID or paperwork in his entire life. If he did, he would’ve been killed, so would his brother. They’re both never had IDs. Unless you count the ones from the Agency and Mint Eye. They’ve got them in the Believer box with their names and faces, but that’s not official. That’s not paperwork that everyone else has. That’s just... 

You know? 

Seeing this tangible thing in my hands is a testament to Saeran Choi being alive and thriving. He’s not afraid of showing his face. He’s living. He’s a free man and nobody can kill him for existing. Does that not weigh on anyone here? It hit me and I wanted to cry. I might break down thinking about this later because I just take this too seriously. Look at him. Look at HIM. Okay? Did you look? Now, LOOK AGAIN.

Okay, I’m not going to share every single page inside of the passport but I will give you little snippets of the journey ahead and show you what he writes and draws. Yes, he’s drawing. I knew that he was talented because he is great at doodling and drawing, but he knows how to have such a cute style that I want to gush about and he probably has no clue about how cute it is because nobody’s ever told him!

Okay, so the trip is broken up over a few months and into segments. You know how I was surprised by the 3 languages? Yes, this passport is written in three languages and it stays that way. It implies that Saeran knows English and Spanish, or at the very least, he’s been studying them, I get that it’s kind of a neat tie in to make sure that all languages are included but I only English and I can only read Spanish, I suck at conversational Spanish, so I could only read the English and Spanish sections. 

So, if anyone wants to throw in what the Korean segments say, please do. I have a rough idea, but it’d be nice to know. The first segment of the trip is spent traveling over Korea. You see the things that he packed in the bag! 

I almost had a heart attack because I thought the vitamins were Caffeine Pills. I was about to beat my Husband and make him go to bed. Thin ice, Saeran. Thin ice, the Special Believer package implied you take more then ten and I want you to go the fuck to sleep at night. 

He packed his hanbok! Look! You remember? From the title screen event? The blue shirt is the one that he matches with MC in. There’s so much I’m screaming about it. 

It shows you things that you do. Like, biking, karaoke, gardens... is there a locket bridge in Korea? You know? If you put them together on a bridge, it’s said that your love lasts forever. I forget where that came from but I guess there must be one in South Korea, too. Oh, and food. Can you believe that he can eat whatever he wants now? I’m sobbing. 

Please. 

HE’S IN HANBOK. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

Okay, here’s the thing. I only have one gripe with the Passport Package and I’m going to say this again at the end, but I really wish that they had included big photos for this because the Passport itself it rather small and I wish that I could have bigger photos of this. It’s my only complaint. Literally, it’s the only thing I have to say about the box that will affect my rating. Look, we’re doing cheesy couple stuff! 

HE’S DOING THE HEART THING WITH HIS HANDS.

A KISS. 

KISS.

GUSHING.

DYING. HELP. ME. 

God, I wish I wasn’t broke. I would commission someone to do this for my MC. 

The second and third portion of the trip are spent in the U.S.A. and Mexico, I was so surprised by that! New York and Hawaii specifically are what they name and I was. Well, those are really far apart, huh. I mean, those are very popular spots. I’m not surprised. I’m chuckling because he’s got matching outfits. 

Saeran Choi, you really want the embarrassing couple look, don’t you? Well, if it’s for you, I’d do it. Did... Saeyoung or Jumin set us up, are we fucking loaded? There’s mad bank here. 

Saeran and MC basically are living per Jumin and Saeyoung, to be honest, because Saeran’s never had a job and MC is... your MC literally agrees to go and test a game in the woods, how good can our lives be? I’m broke, boy. I ain’t got nothing. So, I like to think that those two are offering to let Saeran be as happy and free as he wants. No expense. Like, kindness. The RFA is too damn much, I’m gonna cry. I’m starting to understand why the RFA didn’t hear from us for months. 

The final Check-In with the RFA is set 6 Months after the events that take place when we save Saeran. The events of this Passport cover 3 months. So, we go back to Korea after this adventure and met up with Saeyoung, because we know that we’re hanging out with him in the conclusion. So, if they haven’t really heard from us, that means that we’ve been traveling more with him. 

I kind of like that. 

We’re spending time with Saeran alone and time with the brothers together, and that’s sweet! I love that. I need to write more about it. 

I’m trying not to laugh about this Mexico portion but it looks like he passed out from an ice tea... lemonade...? It’s surely not alcohol. Maybe too much sugar, I know that crash can hurt. I’ve been there. I just know that you’re not implying the man with alcohol trauma is gonna drink. Nope. Neither he nor Saeyoung ever will do that. I stand by that statement and I’ll die by that statement. Bite me my tongue if I’m wrong, but I stand by that. 

Saeran is at least mindful of the sun. He’s also made notes that the perfect time for sunset is 18:34. Cute. He notes that it’s time for the Day of the Dead as well, so that’s fun!

IS THAT A FUCKING V CACTUS—

TWO V CACTUS—

There’s actually a portion in here where he asks you certain questions and you have the space to fill in it. I like that it’s interactive. 

Do you have favorites sweets? Are there things about yourself that you hide? Did you make sure to ask Santa what you wanted? I’m wheezing. The food doodles are one thing, and the Christmas photo is one thing, but he really drew himself as a butterfly and the MC as a bug catcher. 

“CATCH ME, MC.” 

Help me. 

I’m laughing so hard.

Saeran, you fucking goofball.

And, the last page of the passport is us assumedly returning home with all kinds of trinkets and gifts. Flower crown, snow globe, cactus, hats, listen, there’s a lot of details in this photos that I really wish I could have it blown up. 

That’s really my only complaint about the Passport Package. I really want to have bigger photos that are shared. I wouldn’t have minded if it was the photo of the final CG in the game, or the Christmas photo, I really would have enjoyed getting that to have for myself. 

You know? The passport itself is roughly like 5 x 7 or so, so while it’s not big, it’s still like. I would love to see the details blown up. It’s smaller then the diary, that I know for sure. I think it’s the only thing stopping from giving Cheritz a 10/10 on this item. 

I’m going to have to give them a 9.8/10 simply because it feels like we are lacking one big photo. 

I guess I’ll print my favorite CGs and decorate my room like that. But, all and all, I really enjoyed reading this and it made it feel like I was there and I was able to reflect on Saeran’s vacation with the player. Like, he was doing this as we were going using his little doodles... I’m in love with this fucking sap. I’d say that this is worth the money. 

For sure. 

My only gripe aside. That’s a personal problem, not really a content problem. I love this bastard. 

Look at him, he’s GOT A PLUSHIE. I have so many things that I want to write about now thanks to this. Saeran, darling, sweetie, my love, I am dying. Either way, I’m glad this arrived when it did. I needed this. I justified getting this for myself because I don’t expect to get anything for my birthday in early February but I’m happy I have him.

It’s been five years since I found this game in August 2016. I’m happy that it’s been here with me.