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rxzennia · 10 days

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thrice shall the bell toll

– tales of the voracity pathstrider

✎𓂃 expands on 2.2 leaks, dark content towards the end, character death (everyone dies), heavy angst(?), not proofread. totally did not die a little inside when i wrote this, no. thank you all for 100+ followers! gold and gears, achievement grinding are driving me nuts and seeing everyone else get him makes me want to quit the game altogether. perhaps it’s time i focus more on other things.

“never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

the musicians begin to play with rigor as the symphony enters crescendo, building up to its climax as the orchestral music increases in intensity and irregularity. the choir sings, paving the way for the descent of an aeon, of justice; their harmony announcing the impending doom of the sinner, promising his demise, promising him eternal rest.

you arrive at the central plaza, just in time for the closing act.

you meet sunday’s eyes, the bastard head of the oak family, the mastermind conducting this cacophony of noises and disturbances. he has the gall to smirk, to flash you a smirk, as if he’s daring you to do anything.

“aventurine, ambassador of the interastral peace corporation.” sunday stalks around the man bound in shackles, like predator circling prey, hands behind his back as he looks down at him with contempt. “you are hereby found… guilty.”

the baton descends – with it, the melody dramatically tips over its climax into decrescendo.

people often say that death has no place in a dream of prosperity and privilege.

but when the distinction between dream and reality blurs as the very dimension crumbles, who’s to say that to die is to wake, and who’s to say that death is not still death?

in his last moments of consciousness, aventurine sees you reach for your scarf with an expression he had never seen before. acceptance, perhaps? or disappointment? regardless, you have still chosen to surprise him at his last moment. must you continue to exceed his expectations even at his execution? but both you and he know that it is already too late, and his final solace is that you are present to witness the final chapter of his story.

that he is not left behind again.

the golden hands come full circle, palms closing as the strings lift their bows in unison, leaving only the winds to continue playing. the conductor drops their baton as the inevitable quickly encroaches upon the center stage, as the music ceases until only a sole trumpet remains sounding –

he closes his eyes with a last smile for you; aventurine has finally won, at the cost of losing everything.

once shall the bell toll, for the blessed prisoner condemned to a life of deceit and insincerity.

in a split second, the sky darkens; what used to be perpetually golden and bright has been eclipsed without a trace. the artificial sun goes out, street lamps are extinguished, a veil of darkness envelops the golden hour. what was once paradise becomes the abyss, and lament stands where joy once stood.

your scarf flutters to the ground as you give it a strong tug, undoing its loops around your neck as you let it fall. you are half-expecting a gasp followed by a waterfall of words, but it never comes.

because there is no source. aventurine isn’t here anymore.

there’s no more of your boss staring at you with the most awestruck expression as you reveal your face anymore. there’s no more of your boss’s endless pestering anymore.

there’s no more of aventurine opening up to you, getting you to open up, or him tentatively trusting you with fragments of his past anymore.

for the first time, you experience anger. a wrath so intense that it is enough to set even the heavens alight.

it’s about time someone ripped up this disgusting dream woven with fabric made of lies. this facade of extravagant luxury built upon a decaying foundation and the desperation of the masses’ escapism, a nightmare delicately packaged into fantasy that had stripped countless people of their ambitions and futures, it’s about time someone demolished it all.

the dreamchasers who voluntarily surrendered their realities for a temporary escape, the family members who could only obey, the heads of families who put together a ploy like this, and the harmonious strings who composed such a chaotic melody…

none of them matter.

all that matters is that aventurine is executed, publicly, in utmost humiliation.

your scarf disintegrates into tiny specks of dust. brilliantly platinum scales extend from your fingertips to your jaw, threatening to stretch along your face, too. as if answering your call, serpents emerge from all corners of your shadow, slithering off towards all directions as they respond to your will.

in the sky that is pitch black, even darker shadows rear their heads; they fly, circle around the plane of the masterfully crafted illusion, around penacony itself. they await your orders, they await your next command.

“eat up, my darlings.”

twice shall the bell toll, for the manufactured illusion of utopia drowning in the afterglow of opulence.

there is a reason why oroboros the voracity has kept to themselves in an unseen corner of the universe – they are not titled the unsatisfied devourer without reason.

with each corner you take for your own sustenance, you feel the universe tilt. the scales are tipping, the balance is tipping. with each piece of reality you consume, the boundary between subconscious and conscious blurs, falsehoods bleed into truth, and you feast upon them all the same.

in your rage, you are not merely tearing lives and environments apart. you are tearing religions apart, tearing peoples apart. worshippers and monuments of xipe the harmony, their symbols and their emanators, the hard-built resort destination called the dreamscape, and the plainly unremarkable penacony in reality, you are tearing it all apart.

you know you have upset the balance, and you know the consequences. you can hear the crystalline chime of the arbiter’s footsteps approaching you, you can almost see the blinding white light of the operating theater.

as the planet of festivities begin to fall out of orbit, so too do the serpents begin to decompose into glittering ashes.

people scream as gravity somersaults, some swallowed by the caving ground, some swallowed by the gaping maws of the faceless serpents, and some dying by the hand of their kin as they struggle for survival.

you watch impassively as mortals scramble to prolong their lives, and you watch impassively as your serpents are lost, one by one, to the hands of an aeon.

if the mere handwave of an arrogant upholder of justice and a simple declaration are justification enough for an execution, for what reason should you not return the gesture?

if people would simply watch as someone is served the death penalty, what reason do you have to act as they become feed one after another?

and what reason do you have to cling onto mortal sentiments, now that your anchor to mortality is gone?

the man they killed is aventurine. your sometimes-too-annoying boss that you would not trade for anything in the world. your anchor; your dear, dear friend.

you see no reason to rein in your instincts anymore. the primal urge to consume overwhelms you, and all you want to do is to devour, devour, until there is nothing left.

voracity. oroboros’s will.

eat up while you still can, fill your metaphorical stomach with the blood of implicit killers, and tear into the flesh of the perpetrators of this grave transgression.

make them pay. before your judgement rains upon you, before the trumpeters herald your doom, before the star radiating false light meets its end in a supernova, make them pay.

their surgery is swift and painless – precise incision; two, three motions of the scalpel; complete excision.

at long last, the curtains fall. theatrics reach its conclusion, and when you look – there is no one left in the audience.

thrice shall the bell toll, for the leviathan whose fury burned brighter than the ordinance of equilibrium.

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #aventurine #aventurine x reader #ares's voracity pathstrider tales

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monsterfloofs · 4 months

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Alien x Anonymous Reader (Sfw)

(Got to write a little something for my new alieum speices! : > I hope you enjoy! )

It was a whole different experience to arrive at an intergalactic hub with no way to communicate. The typical buzz of translated voices in your ear was replaced with a cacophony of musical sounds, clicking, trills and other inhuman vocalizations. Not that you hadn’t heard them before, but while your tech was working you had been more focused on conversations you could hear and understand. The ability to understand the world around you newly disrupted by static that had buzzed and sputtered angrily into your eardrum. Now that your com portal had chosen the most inopportune time to fizzle out on you, this typical background din had engulfed your attention. A choir of many different voices and dialects, none of which sounded anything remotely like something you could comprehend.

You startled as you were pushed into the crowd, trying to evade one pushy lifeform had you accidentally colliding into another.

You brought your hands up in a plaintive gesture. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” The being blinked at you, tilting its head this way and that, pinchers moving silently. The realization hit hard, without your device working, they couldn’t understand you either. A wave of embarrassment rolled over you as you tried to gesture with your hands. Pointing towards your ear and waving your hands back and forth.

“My com is broken, I can’t um—- Ugh!” The only thing you could think of is to bow apologetically and hurry away before you get yourself into any more trouble.

“This stinks,” You mutter to yourself. “I can’t even ask for my ship to be refueled without this stupid thing working.” You exit the flowing crowd to stop at a quiet space and take a deep calming breath. A hand placed on your heart as you tried to steady your nerves. You didn’t like crowds at the best of times, all those bodies pressing in on you from every direction made your heart do panicked backflips in your chest. You counted your inhale as you felt your lungs rising up against your ribcage. Letting out the exhale for as long as you can stand before starting the pattern again. From this vantage point the crowds don't look that bad, the noise wasn’t as jarring, and you begin to feel like you can breathe easy again.

You observe one distinct looking alien waddling across the shiny tilted floor. It was a species you hadn’t seen before. They had a long snaked head and neck that smoothed into a humanoid torso but ended with a quadruped body with stumpy legs. Like an alligator with the head of a snake, that was fused with a human torso inbetween. With the air of some kind of strange centaur, it waddled along slowly. Its squat lizard legs padded with a pair of synthetic boots that were form fitted to its reptilian toes. It was amusing to note that a lot of aliens gave this being a wide berth, and it made you smile.

At least some beings in the galaxy weren’t letting themselves be pushed around. This fella was taking life in their own stride, and nobody dared telling them to hurry up. At least, not that you could hear anyway. That long neck swiveled towards you, and you saw six white glassy eyes peer at you from above the snake like snoot. You duck your head apologetically, quick to look away. You fumble to retrieve your cell device out of your pocket, looking through the maps of the station. “It looks like there's a help desk on the next floor. . . I am going to hope and pray that someone can understand english.”

Staying at the fringes of the crowd you stick close to the shiny chrome walls, hopping into an elevator that would bring you onto the next level. You do a surprise double take as they see the alligator snake centaur standing alone in the elevator. It’s beady eyes trained on you. The door closes with a ping and the two of you stand awkwardly together.

The being scratches its throat with a clawed hand, before what sounds like a symphony of crickets, come from the back of its throat.

You blink, your eyebrows shooting up at the sound.

“Um. . . Excuse me?”

More cricket sounds, and you grimace awkwardly, before nervously tapping at your ear.

“I can’t— er, I don’t— understand you.”

The pitch drops, sounding more like a swarm locust than crickets. It’s snout cracking open slightly to be able to produce the sound. You fidget anxiously, shoving your hand in your pocket to produce your com, then gesturing with your hands. Tucking the com into one palm before bringing your fists together, thumb down. Then you pull your hands, twisting your wrists. Mimicking a gesture that would be akin to snapping a stick.

“My com is broken,” You tap at your ear again, then demonstrate with your hands.

“Broken.”

You hear crickets again, and rub the back of your neck sheepishly. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to crowd your elevator.” You perk up as the elevator door slides open, and with a sigh of relief you smile and wave to the strange alligator centaur.

“Well ah, I would say thanks for the chat, but um, you can’t understand me anyway. Haha, h-have a good day?” You step out onto the new platform, raising a hand to your forehead to try and see around the wave of new colorful station inhabitants. With your phone in one hand and your com back into your pocket you begin to navigate your way through the second floor.

Stopping with a sigh at the counter.

“Hi,” You begin, a deep baritone rumble coming from the severe looking creature from across the desk. Its deep forebrow raises skeptically as you smile awkwardly.

“Uh, uh, here!” You slide the com over the counter, and the being picks it up with a frown.

“It’s. . . ah”

You glance behind you as the reptilian being from the elevator waddles up to the counter. Their sixed glazed pearly eyes peer at you. “Did you need the help desk too?”

Crickets.

Crickets that the alien at the desk is able to hear, the brooding chiseled features lighten with understanding. A growly rumble coming from deep within its chest as it bares its teeth. Obviously laughing at you as your new friend explains your predicament.

“Hey!” You throw your hands up in defeat, “It wasn’t like I wanted to run around not being understood!”

You scrunch your nose as the two beings then engage in conversation, leaving you promptly in the dust. The alien behind the counter rises, pulling a monitor screen over for you, as words begin to jitter across the glass.

“Language?” The metallic voice hums boredly.

“Ah-Earthian English please, thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” replies the Ai, a little nicer than before.

You visibly sag in relief as english words start scrolling across the screen.

[ Communicator is down? ]

“Yes!” You wheeze in exhaustion and relief. There’s more rumbling laughter and a flash of teeth from the bulky alien at the desk.

[ Damn, that’s rough ]

“Oh man, you have no idea, I think I was going to start hyperventilating here, soon. Do you think you can fix it?”

[ I’ll take a look at it and see what I can do. If not, there is a place at the station where you can buy a new one. I’ll wire the store coordinates to your phone, what’s the number? ]

“You’re a life saver, it’s 177-333-9973-602, I can’t thank you enough.”

You bring up your phone, tapping it to the ai screen and it plings as the new information comes through.

[ If I can’t get your com fixed, I will tell the owner you’re heading their way. ]

You take a deep breath and nod.

“Okay, thank you. Thank you again.”

The alien grunts, an amused smile still scrawled over their broad face as they turn away to tinker with the com.

“Well,” You say, turning to your snooted friend, “This has been quite a day, and it’s not even lunch yet.”

♡｡｡｡｡｡｡｡｡｡｡｡｡｡｡｡｡｡｡｡♡

Enjoy what I write? I have a tip jar! I also take writing and art commissions on kofi! ヽ(*ᵔ▿ᵔ)ﾉ

#alien x reader #alien x human #monster x human #monster x reader #alien x gender neutral reader #alien x gender neutral human

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shintin · 6 months

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The Wacky Widow's Woes

↳ Gojo Satoru x Female Reader

Comedy one-shot

Summary: In a twist of fate, the most obnoxious person on Earth, Gojo Satoru, appeared by your hospital bed. Clearly, the universe had a wicked sense of humor.

Word count: 5k.

Genre: comedy, fluff, yapping (Jujutsu Kaisen au).

Warnings/Tags: humor, no angst, whipped Satoru Gojo, bitchy reader, a lot of jokes about chapter 236 of the JJK manga (my personal healing process), mention of Kitkat, prepare for Gojo's nauseating love for his wife, who's probably sick of him.

Notes: I hope you laugh your ass off while reading this.

You can read my fics on AO3. If you have any questions, don’t be shy and ASK.

On a very, very, very dull autumn afternoon, we find ourselves in a hospital room where its fancy ass curtains are just letting in enough sunlight to cast a gloomy, eerie glow.

There, on the bed, lies a woman who seems to have become one with the medical equipment—or, better to say, a high-tech octopus. Wires and tubes sprout from her body like overgrown vines, connecting her to an orchestra of beeping machines. It's like a twisted version of a modern art installation, where chaos and order collide in a symphony of medical mayhem.

The woman, blissfully oblivious to the cacophony surrounding her, snores away, blissfully lost in dreamland. It's almost comical how she manages to find solace amidst the tangled wires and the chorus of beeps. One might wonder if she's dreaming of a magical place where the cables turn into candy canes and the machines play cheerful tunes instead of somber heartbeats.

The lighting in the room sucks, perhaps to match the mood or new architectural ambiance design. For fuck's sake, who knows! Shadows dance across the walls, conspiring with the flickering fluorescent lights to create an atmosphere that's equal parts unsettling and strangely fascinating.

As if to bring a touch of irony to the scene, a sad excuse for a vase sits on a nearby table, barely holding onto life. Its wilted flowers, once vibrant and alive, now resemble a bouquet of autumn hues gone horribly wrong. It's a symbolic reminder that beauty is fleeting, just like the woman's health, and that even in the darkness, there's a twisted kind of beauty to be found.

The room carries the unmistakable scent of sterile cleanliness, mingled with a hint of despair. It's the kind of smell that makes you want to open a window and let in some fresh air (read jump out), but alas, in this hospital room, fresh air seems like a distant memory.

Well, hold on to your hospital gown because here's a plot twist for you! Picture this: you've been envisioning this serene hospital room, reading it in all its autumnal glory, and guess what? The woman lying on that bed, surrounded by beeping machines and tubes, is none other than... drumroll... you!

Yep, you're the star of the show, ready to wake up and face your second stroke. But hey, don't worry, it's not going to be as boring as your room décor. No, no, life has decided to throw you a curveball and add a dash of excitement to your hospital stay. Who needs a peaceful recovery when you can have a stroke sequel, right?

So get ready to jolt awake and embrace the chaos! Remember, even in between unexpected events, a good sense of humor can be the best medicine. Laughter might not cure your condition, but it can certainly make the hospital experience a little more bearable. So, chin up, brave stroke survivor! Your story is about to take an exciting turn!

Well, well, well.

As you wake up from your beauty sleep, feeling as if you've been smooching a cactus all night, the machines around you decide to unleash their inner DJs with a symphony of beeps. How thoughtful of them to create an auditory masterpiece that grates on your nerves like a tone-deaf choir. Ah, music to your ears, right?

But fear not, the brave warrior of hydration! You are on a noble quest to conquer the desert that has taken residence in your mouth. Summoning every ounce of strength (and probably some residual grumpiness), you muster the strength to ascend from your pillow fortress. With your hand gracefully reaching out for that tempting glass of water, victory feels within reach.

Your hand hovers mid-air as if suspended by an invisible force, frozen in a moment of pure disbelief. Just when you think the universe couldn't possibly play a more mischievous trick on you, there he was—sitting on the couch like he owns the place—the one person you would rather avoid more than a clown with a pie in hand. Seriously, is this some cosmic prank show?

Your eyes widen in disbelief, your heart skips a beat, and you can't help but let out a little groan. It's like the universe is trying to test your resilience, throwing you into this hilariously uncomfortable situation. Oh, the irony!

You: Hell no! What the fuck are you doing here?

Right in front of your very eyes sits the epitome of style and charm—a man sporting a white shirt and black pants combo that would weaken fashion gurus at the knees. No sunglasses dare cross the path of this confident fellow, for his piercing ocean-blue eyes need no protection from the sun's feeble attempts to outshine them.

But wait, there's more! Let's not forget about his head adorned with fluffy white hair that could rival the fluffiest clouds. Ugh!

Satoru: Hello to you too, love!

He strikes a pose that screams, "I'm the king of this couch!" With one leg casually crossed over the other and his arms spread wide on the back of the couch, he's claiming his throne in the most nonchalant and hilarious way possible.

Satoru: Is this how you greet your beloved husband?

You: Fuck off!

With the speed of a ninja on a caffeine high, you swiftly pull the blanket up to your chest, fully aware that the hospital gowns offer about as much coverage as a single sheet of tissue paper. Yes, those flimsy garments are the Victoria's Secret of the medical world—barely there and leaving little to the imagination! And just when you thought the situation couldn't get any more entertaining, you catch a glimpse of his famous smile. Asshole! Is he peeping on you?

Satoru: Aha! The feisty spirit lives on! Missed your sassy attitude.

He grins like a mischievous little rascal who just stumbled upon a secret stash of dad jokes, except it's a porn website!

Satoru: And, of course, your perked-up nipples!

Summoning your inner grumpy penguin, you dramatically cross your arms over your chest, shooting him a glare that could make a grizzly bear retreat in fear.

You: well, Mr. White-Haired Head with a stinky smirk and eyes bluer than a bottle of Windex, I didn't miss you AT ALL!

Satoru: Why, oh why, did you dye your hair white if you claim not to miss me, baby? Is it some secret signal to the hair gods that you're ready to experience the adventure of life without my captivating presence? Or perhaps it's your way of channeling the wisdom of Gandalf and Dumbledore, hoping that your newly snowy locks will grant you magical powers to forget all about me?

You: Hold your horses, chatterbox! My hair has turned snowy white without any meddling from me. No, I didn't secretly sprinkle it with magic hair dye while cackling like a mischievous sorcerer, you idiot!

Satoru: Whoopsie daisy! You've got a point there. Did I accidentally step on your delicate feelings, wise and experienced grandma?

In a grand display of determination, you muster every ounce of strength to grab the pillow behind your back, preparing to launch it at him. Alas, it seems the strength of a thousand paperclips has possessed your hands, rendering them feeble and incapable of fulfilling your pillow-throwing dreams. The valiant effort leaves you gasping for air as if you have just completed a marathon of pillow-tossing.

Satoru: Yowai mo!

He erupts into laughter, showcasing his undeniable talent as a professional tease.

You: Cut the crapola! Spill the beans! What on earth has brought you to this neck of the woods?

With your firm tone that could rival a drill sergeant's, the machine begins beeping faster than a sugar-rushed hummingbird on roller skates. It's as if the beeps are making their best impression of a hyperactive jazz band, matching the frantic tempo of your skyrocketing heart rates.

Satoru: I'll be rolling on the floor in laughter if you drop dead from the sheer intensity of your anger, Granny. Let's be real; finding inner peace is way more beneficial for you in the long run. Just saying!

You: Satoru!

Satoru: Yep, that's me. Breaking hearts and taking names. Can't a poor soul like me simply pay a visit to my dear wife on her deathbed?

You: Hell to the no! You can't just waltz in our life whenever you please! Sorry, but you lost that VIP visiting privilege when you—

Satoru: Oh, and on that note, could that charming chick who graced you with her presence earlier be our beloved daughter?

You sigh, exasperated, and gently rub your forehead as if trying to coax that headache into submission. Ah, the joys of a headache that seems set on conquering you before any actual sickness does. With a dramatic sweep of your hand across your face, you channel your inner drama queen and then grab your neck.

You: Oh, please, for the love of all that is awkward, just tell me that you didn't try to work your "smooth moves" on her.

Satoru: I was this close to making a move, you know? She's like a spitting image of when I was head over heels for you! It's like you've managed to clone yourself or something. Should I be worried? Did you secretly stash away all my precious genes and hoard them for your own amusement? Well, I guess I can't blame you for wanting to keep all those sperms to yourself! But seriously, she doesn't look like me at all. I am hurt!

He pouts like a baby, forever stuck in his eternal state of immaturity, but you aren't about to let that deter you. With an air of defiance, you casually lean against the hospital bed board, gazing intently at the serum making its grand entrance into your veins. Oh, and that obnoxious machine chiming away? You can't help but wish it could just shut up.

You: It's actually better for her, you know. At least she doesn't have anything that serves as a constant reminder of her absent father, who couldn't even be bothered to be present during her birth!

Your words are like a sarcasm waterfall, cascading with vicious wit. You've mastered the art of tongue-in-cheek remarks, and while you're fully aware of their potency, you couldn't care less. It's like you've got a license to sass, and you're not afraid to use it, even if it makes the world say, "Well, ain't you a delightful ray of sunshine!"

Satoru: Let's not paint the picture as if I had some glamorous options! Nope, I was bestowed with the honor of being the designated problem-solver, the one expected to handle it all while gracefully tiptoeing through—

You: Oh, pretty please! If it's not too much trouble, continue your reign as the honored one through heaven and earth, while sparing me from any additional bouts of annoyance. I must say, it's quite the talent you possess—being both honored and a master of irritation. Quite the balancing act, I must admit!

As you clench the blanket in desperation, that rebellious needle gleefully plunges itself into your hand. Fuck unexpected pain! And there, decorating your arm like a chilling masterpiece, are the bruises—trophy marks from your encounters with the needle army. Who knew injections could become an avant-garde art form? With tears welling up and the air growing thinner, it feels like the room is leaving you gasping for breath just to have a twisted sort of fun. Bravo, universe, for your fucked up sense of humor! A standing ovation for this macabre spectacle.

Satoru: Love?

You: …

Satoru: Baby?

You: …

Satoru: My Wondrous Whipped Cream Warrior, the Caramel Crusader, the Sprinkle Spritzer, the Marshmallow Maestro, the Treat Tornado, the Sugar Rush Superstar, the Jelly-filled Joy Bringer, and the Sweetness Sorceress who turns my world into a Never-ending Dessert Buffet! The Honeyed Pussy of—

You: WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT, SATORU?

You are wheezing like a chain-smoking asthmatic, desperately gasping for air, and his attitude is about as helpful as a wet matchstick. You and the mysteries of poor life choices! What possessed you, in that twisted moment of madness, to willingly plunge into the depths of infatuation with him? It's a dark, twisted enigma that not even the Grim Reaper could decipher.

Satoru: Are you still mad?

As you tilt your head, there he is, looking at you with those big, blue eyes, like a lost poppy desperately trying to win the "Most Heart-Melting Flower" award. What a sneaky trickster! He knows exactly what he is doing, employing his secret weapon of irresistible gazes, and darn it; it works like a charm! You can't resist the powers of those eyes, and you reluctantly surrender, cursing his effective tactics while secretly admiring his diabolical brilliance. Well played, Mr. Blue-Eyed Mother Fucker, well played.

You: I never stopped being mad at you!

Satoru: Fair, but you have to know that—

You: Spare me the creative excuses, please! You pulled off the greatest magic trick of all—knocking me up—and then poof! You disappeared into thin air, leaving me with a growing belly and a bewildered expression. Good job, Houdini!

Satoru: You're welcome, baby. But you've got to cut me some slack here! My job description practically has "Accident Enthusiast" written all over it. It's not like I wake up in the morning, rubbing my hands together, thinking, "Oh boy, I can't wait for another mishap!" So, let's blame it on my occupational hazard, shall we?

You: Oh, well, then, thank you so much for gracing us with your presence again! You chose to go down that path because, of course, you believed you were the one and only capable being in the universe. And oh, how lucky we are that you decided to leave me and our daughter behind. It's truly heartwarming to see you saunter back into our lives after years like it's just another casual stroll in the park. I mean, who needs a father figure during precious moments like birth, first words, and first steps, right? Clearly, you had more important things to attend to. Our daughter has grown up and gone through school, and I've had the pleasure of explaining why her dad couldn't be bothered to pick her up like those "normal" dads. Graduation, dating, first job—she did it all without you, and we couldn't be more grateful for your consistent absence. Now you have the audacity to—

You start coughing, and each painful gasp feels like your lungs are being ruthlessly ripped apart, leaving behind crimson stains on your once immaculate sheets and hands. And there he stands, towering tall, as handsome as the day he first stole your heart. It's just not fair that he still looks so good while sickness has mercilessly drained the life from your weary soul. He approaches you, the lingering scent of vanilla clinging to him, a bittersweet reminder of what you once cherished but now resentfully long for.

Satoru: Take a sip of water. Do you want me to help you?

Oh, he's all worried now, isn't he? But honestly, after enduring all that post-him misery, you're not about to let him off the hook just because he's offering a glass of water. Come on, you might be a little dumb, but you're not "drink-water-and-forget-all-the-pain" dumb! Nice try, buddy, but you'll need more than H2O to wash away the mess you left behind.

You: I DON'T NEED YOUR GODDAMN HELP! How about you kindly take a flying leap back to wherever you've been hiding all this time? I'm sure you've perfected your disappearing act by now. And don't forget to leave behind a trail of glittering resentment as you go, just to keep things spicy. Ta-ta, farewell, and may you step on a thousand Lego bricks on your way out!

Satoru: Listen up, partner in crime! I've had enough of leaving you to your own devices. It's been tough for me, too, and I sincerely apologize for piling on the hardship. But I learned my lesson! Starting right this very moment, I'm making a solemn vow never to ditch you again. Consider me your loyal sidekick, ready to tackle life's challenges together, even if it means enduring endless reruns of your favorite TV show or subjecting myself to your cooking experiments. We're in this for the long haul, love!

You use the sleeve of your flimsy, ridiculous gown to clumsily wipe away the blood from your mouth, all the while shooting him a perplexed look. Seriously, how on earth does he still manage to gaze at you with those doe eyes, all lovey-dovey, when you're rocking the vampire-on-a-sunlit-day aesthetic?

You: So, you decided to grace me with your presence just because I'm sick?

Satoru: Yes.

You: I see how it is! You're not here because you missed me, huh?

Satoru: Uh-oh, am I about to witness another round of your infamous anger? But hey, before you explode like a volcano, let me enlighten you that I didn't write the rulebook on how things work. Nope, not my area of expertise. Turns out, the universe didn't consult me when setting up the whole system. It seems they left me out of the committee meeting where they decided the rules of life. Classic!

You: Does it hurt?

Satoru: It hurt me badly because I snapped in half like a Kit-Kat bar. And no, there wasn't a delicious wafer filling in between, just pure pain and emotional wreckage.

You: Come on, Satoru! This is not the time for your quirky sense of humor. I mean, seriously, I saw your guts out in the open, and to top it off, ants decided to take a leisurely hike on them.

Satoru: TV producers really went all out with the graphic details, huh? Sure, I appreciate high-definition viewing, but did they need a close-up of my stuff? Talk about taking reality TV to a whole new level! I hope they provided a warning. Note to self: avoid snacking while watching shows that involve anatomical explorations!

You: SATORU!

Satoru: Alright, alright, no need to get serious! Can't a man crack a joke about his own death around here? Fine, I'll hold your hand during the whole thing. You know, I once spouted that cliché line about dying alone, but let's face it, that was a load of nonsense. Nobody goes down that final road solo. It's like a grand exit party!

You: Oh, really? So, you had some company, huh? Well, you know what they say: ignorance is bliss. I don't need the details, and my imagination can take a wild ride all on its own

Satoru: Jealousy looks good on you, love.

As he bends closer, his breath tickles your lips, making you wonder if he had onions for lunch. With a dramatic flourish, he grabs your chin as if auditioning for a cheesy romance movie. And then, like a vacuum cleaner on turbo mode, he plants a kiss that sucks the air right out of your lungs. It's like indulging in a dessert buffet filled with marshmallows, caramel, and insulin shots. Who needs a thrill ride at an amusement park when you can experience a sugar rush of epic proportions? You may be risking diabetes, but hey, at least you'll be leaving this world with a sweet tooth satisfied and an unforgettable, albeit comical, memory of that last smooch.

Unfortunately, after what feels like a fleeting eternity, he decides to break the kiss. As your eyes meet, you can't help but sneak a glance downwards, wondering if his pants harbored any surprises. Alas, it appears that either he's a master of disguise or ghosts have taught him their spectacular talent for concealment. Sneaky whores!

Satoru: Are you ready to go?

Oh, snap! Once the horniness fades away, reality hits you like a ton of bricks. Holy shit! How did you manage to forget about your daughter? Leaving her behind is definitely not the best parenting move. Time to snap back into responsible mode and give that little one the attention she deserves. Parenthood: where forgetfulness meets a reality check!

You: Will she be okay?

Satoru: She's our little munchkin. She'll be alright.

You: I want to see her for the last time.

Satoru: You can see her whenever you want.

You: WHAT?

He scratches his head, messing up his undercut, desperately trying to dodge eye contact like a game of social hide-and-seek.

Satoru: Ops! Did I just spill the beans on one of the perks of the afterlife? My bad! My master plan was to witness that priceless guilty expression on your face when we reached the pearly gates. Imagine your shock when you realized you blamed me for no reason, only to discover I had a front-row seat to all your shenanigans during all those years! Oh, the things I've seen! I know how many times you've touched yourself thinking about me! No judging, though! And yes, I know you secretly fumed when our little bundle of joy uttered "Dada" before "Mama." Don't worry, I won't tell a soul... except, you know, all the other souls up there. It's the ultimate celestial gossip!

You: WHAT? YOU KNOW EVERYTHING? THEN WHY THE FUCK YOU ASKED IF SHE'S OUR DAUGHTER?

Satoru: First, just to tickle your pickle. Second, as I cunningly planned.

You: You're still a brat!

Satoru: And you're still as beautiful as the day I lost you.

You: Smooth words, my friend, but let's not kid ourselves. I won't buy into any deceit. I'm old, wrinkled, and sick. Time and disease are killing me, just as you hated. Meanwhile, you continue to flaunt that glorious chiseled chest and those rock-hard butt cheeks.

Satoru: Thank you, ma'am, for keeping my ass in your thoughts. Speaking of which, I must confess I've made some boneheaded decisions along the way. Opting for death in the name of someone else can seem like a breeze compared to the complexity of choosing to live for them. So, kudos to you for being the badass who faced life's challenges to honor my memory.

You: I hope this is not just a dream.

Satoru: We can give it a try and see for ourselves.

As Satoru reaches out his hand, something extraordinary unfolds—the machine starts beeping. You look at the device, noticing that the time between beeps gradually increases. But then, your gaze shifts to your cherished spouse, the man whose absence has left an indelible void within you. The man with whom you would have fearlessly confronted doomsday on that fateful December 24th in 2018, had it not been for the fact that you were carrying his last trace of existence, a precious legacy nestled within your very being.

You: You feel so warm.

Satoru: Some things never change.

His hand gracefully slides towards your waist, triggering a chain reaction of chaos. Those pesky wires and tubes that were so dutifully attached to you? Well, they decide it's time for a break and go on a wild unplugging spree. It's like a rebellious dance party of freedom for those little connectors! And just when you thought things couldn't get any more exciting, your feet are about to touch the chilly floor, ready to embark on an unplanned adventure.

You: Hold up! Fetch my wheelchair for me!

Satoru: You don't need it anymore.

As you place your feet on the floor, you can't help but chuckle at the fact that your knees manage to hold up, allowing you to stand upright. The machines emit a continuous beeping sound, indicating a flat line on the monitor. Suddenly, the door swings open, and a troupe of nurses storm into the room. They swiftly gather around your motionless body lying on the bed. One nurse examines your vital signs, another administers an injection into your vein, and a third retrieves a machine to deliver cardiac shocks in an attempt to revive you. Witnessing these intense moments, you hold Satoru's hand tighter.

You: I don't want to come back.

Satoru: Are you sure?

Tears well up in the corners of your eyes and trickle down your cheeks as you gaze at him.

You: Yeah. I've spent more time living with your memory than I've had the opportunity to live alongside you.

Satoru's grip on your hand intensifies like he's determined to etch his touch into your very being. He lifts your hand delicately, planting a tender kiss upon it. Drawing you closer to him, he envelopes you in an embrace, burying your face in the warmth of his chest. With gentle affection, he presses a kiss upon the crown of your head, leaning his head upon yours.

As teardrops trickle onto your head, you find yourself clinging to him desperately, as if trying to hold onto the fragments of a shattered existence. In that agonizing moment, the harsh reality of his unfulfilled roles crashes down upon you like a relentless wave. He has endured the torment of being a husband bereft of a wife, a father denied a child, and a sensei forsaken his students.

Satoru: I will never let go of you anymore.

You: Is this just another one of those "oops, my bad" promises? You know, like when you swore to be to hold me for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health?

Satoru: Heyyy! I held you till death do us part. I even remember, the night before my, um, grand finale, I held you so good that you had spread your legs, moaning my name and begging me to hold you harder.

Just as you are ready to break free from his grasp and deliver a well-deserved bonk on his clueless head, the scene takes an unexpected turn. Your doctor rushes into the room and towards your bed, barking orders left and right, and proceeds to administer yet another mysterious injection into your poor, defenseless vein.

Deciding to redirect your attention, you avert your gaze and catch sight of your reflection in the nearby window. To your astonishment, your hair has magically reverted to its former glory, defying the clutches of time. Wrinkles? Vanished as if a skilled magician performed a grand disappearing act. You're suddenly transported back to the good ol' days of youthfulness. Bewildered, you inspect your once-bruised hands, only to find them as flawless as a newborn's.

You: Satoru? What's—

Satoru: I know, right? It turns out one of the unexpected bonuses of kicking the bucket is that you get to rock your sexiest form once again. So, brace yourself because I won't behave when you sashay around in that gorgeous drop-dead gown. I can't keep it in my pants till we arrive and I start making cream pies and babies with you!

You: Oh, my goodness! Does it actually work in the afterlife as well?

Satoru: You're referring to my... um, dick? Let me tell you, it still has the same old magic, if not a little extra pizzazz! It's like a fine wine, aging gracefully and delivering peak performance in the afterlife. Who knew there would be such perks beyond the grave?

You: No, idiot! I mean babies!

Satoru: How should I know? I made sure to wear a condom during my frisky encounters with angels.

You can't help but release an exasperated breath, causing your ears to turn as red as a tomato in a sauna. The thought of giving him a good old-fashioned strangling and sending him off to the after-afterlife has you chuckling at the absurdity of it all.

Satoru: Would it tickle your funny bone if I threw caution to the wind and played a game of "heavenly roulette" with unprotected encounters, potentially earning myself some out-of-this-world STD souvenirs?

With a masterful brow raise and a world-class eye roll, you are all set to deliver the ultimate "exit stage left" move. But he pulls off the ultimate surprise maneuver and hits you with the "Hold up, wait a minute" move. He has a secret superpower to freeze you in your snarky tracks! Goddammit! Those puppy eyes again.

Satoru: I was joking, okay? I just jerked off while watching your showering or self-exploration activities. I mean, fingering yourself while calling my name. That's it! Okay? Also, we should have a talk about that dildo you named Hollow Purple!

You: So, it seems you shamelessly watched everything, hm?

Satoru: Yes. Absolutely! I had a lot of spare time to slay, and, hey, let's not divert our attention from the Hollow Purple subject, you dirty little mouse!

You: God! Kill me already!

Satoru: Why? You're just itching to infiltrate the kingdom of my pants, aren't you?

You: You know what? I've had a change of heart. I'd rather try my chances with cosmic sickness than spend an eternity with your delightful company!

Satoru: Goodness gracious! You and your fiery temper! How on earth did you manage to cast a spell on me, making me fall for you?

You: It's common knowledge among our friends that everybody should bow down to your shameless expertise in the art of begging!

Satoru: Is that so?

He displays a smug smirk, his arms crossed firmly over his chest.

Satoru: Well, we can ask when we see them.

Your eyes go from their regular setting to full-on "wide-angle lens" mode, capturing the world in all its wide-eyed wonder. It is as if someone presses the "zoom" button on your peepers, revealing a comical level of astonishment.

You: They are there, too?

Satoru: Oh boy, buckle up for Nanamin's epic rage when he discovers our fashionably late entrance!

You: Well, chop-chop! Time to hit the road! We wouldn't want to unleash the wrath of the entire afterlife just because your chatty ass decided to go on such a long monologue!

He leans in and gently kisses your forehead, intertwining his fingers with yours as he guides you towards the door. As you both stand at the doorway, you cast a lingering gaze upon the nurses and doctor, who seem to have thrown in the towel on their attempts to revive you.

Satoru: I can't wait to spook everyone alongside you. You'll forever be my always.

Author's Note: I had an absolute blast writing this.

@enchantedforest-network 🤍

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monstress · 4 months

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favorite 2023 korean album releases

episode1: love — soyoon

i loved her first solo album and i have been ecstatic by how much love this album has received because her skills as a songwriter just grew exponentially. what a suave, confident and powerful album. 'till the sun goes up' and 'canada' - the duality of a woman...i'm in love.

dipuc — cacophony

if you're not up to cacophony discography, i would highly recommend this album. from the first track, it was like she's immediately tucking you into her coat - crooning you an intimate sonic odyssey. the run from 'Lean Your Body On Me' to 'End' had me screaminggg. for the season, the track 'Christmas' is gorgeous.

notwitzki — beenzino

dammit...he's still good. beenzino's technical prowess has not slipped since his last release and while i was ready to be punched in the gut, this was a surprisingly tranquil listen. truly just an album perfect for a relaxing night drive with the boys, the girls, and the theys. 'Travel Again' and 'Change' are standouts to me.

pat pat — risso

if you don't find one track you can't groove to on this, you may be entitled to legal compensation. a citypop album i can't get enough of during the summer. the disco track 'SPF' and smooth r&b 'daydreamer' should've hit them to the mainstream stratosphere. it's soooo unfair how they don't have a romance kdrama ost under their belt already.

love pt. 2 — colde

starting out with my number one spotify wrapped artist. what else is there to stay...impeccably engineered k-r&b album with solid bops, an underrated featuring track ('heartbreak club' is the best track of the year to me - the reggae influence, the smoothest beat switch of the album, chan hyuk's 2000s flare rap line delivery), and a surprise cover of a korean indie classic.

sichimi — sumin

a chill, downbeat album to wind down after a long day with an ending that makes you wanna go back to the start. listen to this album just for 'Closet' where sumin and uhm jung hwa are just trying to out queen each other. obsessed.

zip — zion.t

it's been 5 years since his last release that i actually yelled when i saw the notification he released a music video because i wasn't expecting it all. as a long time fan, i loved the evolution you can see from 'oo' with the detour at 'zzz' culminating on this album. witty, eccentric and earworms galore, it's so solid. the lil ditty 'stranger' and the sweeping 'the things i love' (kim hae sol, you don't give me both a jazz solo and a choir in a track and expect it not being my immediate favorite) are gorgeous.

machine boy — silica gel

amazingggg rock album - i was blown away by the first track alone. you know they'd go so hard at concerts. also shoutout to 'machineboygong' for being a nine minute masterpiece which i recommend for you to listen at least once. it'd be remissed not to mention their latest album 'power andre 99' is astonishingly excellent as well.

no one can hunt me — joonie

my favorite experimental album of the year. if you're into electronic, this is a great listen. moody, dystopian, warped tracks that only spiral downwards to isolating madness. it's only four tracks and my fave constantly changes.

____

honorable mentions: yukika's "time lapse", ashmute's 'this place no longer exists', suzanne's "new life, new mind", dpr ian's "dear insanity...", epik high's 'screen time', code kunst's 'archive 01', voyeur's 'same dream, huh yunjin's 'blessing in disguise', thmoon's 'dormant'

#favkreleases #korean indie #beenzino #colde #silica gel #sumin #zion.t #soyoon #se so neon #risso #joonie

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dreamvonlicht · 25 days

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History breeds Anachronism

- A poem by Dream Von Licht

The days are quiet

Dull and timeless

Sitting with my respite

In dampening silence

My pen knows not what to write

Dredging for external guidance

I ache for days forlorn

In seeking what I yearn

Yesterdays bygone

And eras I’ve yet to mourn

I find myself puzzled by endless cacophony

Wordless symphonies reek of timeless tragedies

Sings a choir in solemn harmony

My love does not cease

Despite your departure

I write of this quandary

And carry what I harbor

Will I suffer less if it’s self inflicted?

Why is this pain so contradictive

I do not wish to reap

I sow what I abhor

I miss you more

Than someone in a single lifetime

Could ever account for

#poetry #personal

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powderblueblood · 12 days

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BEAUTIFUL!

ronnie ecker recounts the last first day of the worst of her life or i wanted to rewrite beautiful from heathers the musical, hellfire and ice version. warnings: first person narrative (ronnie's pov), swearing, era-typical misogyny, bullying and slurs, mention of eating disorders, everyone's a dick, everyone's kind of gay for lacy doevski. wc: 3.8k

September 1st, 1984.

First day of the end of your life. It’s hard not to get a little intro-outrospective.

If I was a diary keeping person, which I’m not because I don’t like to leave a paper trail outside my own goddamn academic brilliance, I’d write something like this.

Dear diary, I believe that I’m a good person–y’know, relatively speaking, if you don’t count that one time I bit that one kid for catcalling me. But, here we are! First day of senior year! And I look around at these kids I’ve known all my life and I ask myself–what happened?

We’re in the hallway, bottlenecking toward the cafeteria. It’s right around lunchtime, so everyone’s getting a real good look at everybody else, categorizing who they hate, who they hate more, who got boobs over the summer. God, do we ever stop slinging shit at each other, even when we think no one’s listening? There’s a constant cacophony in the hallways of Hawkins High.

Freak! Slut! Burnout! Bug-eyes! Poser! Lard-ass!

And no one does anything about it.

It’s pretty sad, considering where we came from.

We were so tiny, happy and shiny, playing tag and getting chased.

Freak! Slut! Loser! Shortbus!

Singing and clapping, laughing and napping, baking cookies, eating paste. Especially me. I was crazy for that shit.

Bull-dyke! Stuck-up! Hunchback!

Then we got bigger, that was the trigger, like the Huns invading Rome. “Shit, my bad!” That underclassman I just walked straight into looked terrified. And for good reason.

Welcome to my school, this ain’t no high school. This is the Thunderdome.

Trailer trash!

For the very first very last time, I crane my head around the swamped hall and try to recall where my new locker is. First star on the right, and I wiggle in my combination and dump my books inside. I take a second, shoving my head inside the cool metal darkness (voluntarily, for once) and mutter, “Hold your breath and count the days, we’re graduating soon–”

“–Christ. College will be paradise, if I’m not dead by June.”

I crane my neck out. Two lockers up from me, elegant fingers pull open an identical door to mine except hers, of course, already has a vanity mirror hung up inside. She checks her reflection, not like it ever needs checking. One of her faithful little redheads stands beside her, smacking bubblegum so loud it makes my ears pop.

“You are so melodramatic, it’s crazy.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing…”

It sucks how the chrysalis of adolescence has made most of us completely obnoxious. I try not to be a sucker for nostalgia, but I can’t help but remember how much easier this was in middle school. Waking up on a weekday didn’t have to be like living in a segment of Creepshow.

I know, I know, I know, life can be beautiful. No plastic Jesus on my dashboard (or… handlebars, I guess) but I pray, I pray for a better way. If we changed back then, we could change again…

Then I get a whole shoulder of dork, right to the face. Bubblegum snaps between snorts, I can see that he’s been shoved my way. Yeah, we could be beautiful…

“Ow!”

Just not today. “Hey, are you okay?”

This Jansport sporting asshole twists his face up right in mine. “Get away, nerd!” Jesus Christ.

The choir of angels go on–I’m just trying to make it to the cafeteria and grab a fucking chicken pot pie. I’m starving, and I could use a little less soundtrack.

Freak! Slut! Cripple! Homo! Homo! Homo!

But, listen. It’s not a total nightmare. There’s light at the end of the tunnel. Things will get better soon as my letter comes from Harvard, Duke or Brown–

–or, NYU, if we’re being really serious.

“Wake from this coma, take my diploma–” God. This chick’s voice seems to cut through the din of the hallway like a bell, “Then I can blow this town. Dream of ivy covered walls and smoky French cafes…”

“Sooo uber pretentious!”

“Watch it, freak!” I don’t even need to turn around to figure out who that’s directed at. But, I’m a little preoccupied with singing my own tune, here! Muscling through to the lunch line, grabbing a tray while I–

“–fight the urge to strike a match and set this dump ablaze. Hey, Ronnie!”

Dude, shut up! I swing around, trying to spot the owner of that very different, very familiar dulcet tone when some duckbill hat wearing dickwad upends my lunch tray. Dressed in Hawkins Tiger green and gold, this is one of many prize dickwads.

Bear with me, I’m trying to place him.

“Ooops.”

Andy Sweeney. Indiana’s worst point guard… “whose true talent lies in being a huge dick.”

Did I mention before about that lack of filter between my brain and my mouth? I patch it up pretty good most of the time, but sometimes…

“What did you say to me, skank?” Andy demands of me all darkly and shit. It’s scary. Even if I’ve got a foot and a half on him.

“Aaah!” I recoil, looking at his flexing fists, “Nothing.”

I back up from him, way way up, leaving my mess of a lunch tray on the ground. Even though that makes me feel shitty–when did I become the guy who left stuff for the already harangued janitorial staff to clean up?

We were kind before; we can be kind once more…

Head down. Stalk through. Find the Hellfire table. But, not before someone chucks me lightly on the arm.

“Agh!” I holler before I register him. I am totally on edge. “Hey, Eddie.”

“Hey,” he grins in a sardonic way that says I cannot believe we’re putting ourselves through this again.

Eddie Munson. My best friend since pre-pube. The closest thing I’ll ever have to a brother, unless Granny finally lets me get that gecko I’ve always wanted. I’m almost eighteen, for Chrissake, I should be allowed.

Anyway, Eddie rocks. We know this. Look at him.

“We still on for movie night?” he asks.

I beam. Our first day of school comedown tradition. “Shit yeah, you’re on Jiffy Pop detail.”

Eddie’s got a little pep in his step and it jangles his wallet chain. Dude can’t help but attract attention– almost all of it unwanted. “I rented Evil Dead.”

“Hohoho, again? Wait, don’t you have it memorized by now?”

“What can I say?” Before I can even warn him, Eddie’s backstepping straight into– “I’m a sucker for a gory ending.”

“Eddie Munson, king of the trailer park! What, you didn’t qualify for free lunches this year?”

A hand comes down hard on the age-old tin lunchbox Eddie’s carrying. The clatter it makes against the lino makes me want to cover my ears and hide, especially when I see Eddie’s face. Total resignation. It’s humiliating.

This guy?

Tommy Hagan. He’s the smartest guy on the basketball team, which is kind of like being the tallest dwarf.

“Too goddamn easy, man!” he guffaws, and I would try to figure out what farm animal he most resembles, but apparently I’m too busy–

“Hey! Pick that up! Right now!” –being the hero.

“I’m sorry, are you actually talking to me?” Tommy also tries to tower over me, but I’ve got a decent number of inches on him too.

My cheeks blaze.

“Yes, I am. I wanna know what gives you the right to pick on my friend. You’re a high school has-been waiting to happen. Tell me, Tommy, do you actually have a personality outside of sticking your nose right up Steve Harrington’s ass?”

Tommy gets closer and closer. So close that I can see the nose hair move as he huffs through his freckly nostrils. His finger points right between my eyebrows.

“… you have a zit right there.”

Cue rapturous laughter from the peanut gallery.

Dear diary…

Why do they hate me? Why don’t I fight back? Why do I act like such a creep? Why won’t he date me? Why did I hit him? Why do I cry myself to sleep?

Somebody hug me! Somebody fix me! Somebody save me!

Send me a sign, God! Give me some hope here! Something to live for!

The doors of the cafeteria burst open and Tommy’s attention is thankfully wrenched away from me. Everyone’s attention is wrenched away from me. Because we’ve all been waiting for this.

They enter the caf in a solid formation, so solid that people part for them. Some gazing, some gawping, some glaring. The name calling ceases, the bullying pauses.

This is the royal court. They float above it all.

Tina Burton, head cheerleader. Her dad is loaded. He sells engagement rings.

Heather Holloway, runs the yearbook. Badly. No discernible personality, but her mom did pay for implants.

Even the lessers are notorious. Carol Perkins has been having sex since, like, seventh grade. Cass Finnigan’s been pretending to save it for Jesus but giving a backdoor key to whoever buys her peach schnapps. Nicole Summers invented three new slurs last year alone.

And finally, Lacy Doevski.

The Almighty.

She is a mythic bitch.

These girls, they’re solid Teflon. Never bothered. Never harassed–

“I would give anything to be like that.”

And I know I don’t sit in that thought alone. Glancing around the tables, the coagulation of cliques, I can hear the desire coming from my classmates.

I’d like to be their boyfriend. If I sat at their table, guys would notice me. I’d like them to be nicer.

“What’s the over-under on one of those harpies getting kidnapped, taken to some abandoned warehouse to be photographed naked and left for the rats?” Eddie mutters into my ear as we slam ourselves down at our regular table.

I roll my freakin’ eyes. “I told you that your Barb Holland theory was insane.”

Eddie shrugs, flipping open his recovered lunchbox. “Just sayin’... They never found a body. Anyway, my money's on the ice queen. If everything they're sayin' about her dad is true, she is prime ransom material.”

“You are so unnecessarily twisted.” But my eyes are still following the crown jewels. I notice that Lacy, Tina and Heather all rise to the girl’s room immediately after they finish their minimal lunch.

I interrupt Eddie and Gareth’s too-intense-for-lunchtime debate about the morality of posthumously publishing The Silmarillion. “I have to take a leak.”

As I gently push the door of the bathroom open, I can see Tina standing nervously at an open stall door. Heather is ralphing like her life depends on it. The reptilian arch of Lacy Doevski is bent towards the mirror, touching up her lipstick.

“Grow up, Heather,” Lacy says in this voice that could weirdly be misconstrued as concerned, “Bulimia is so sophmoronic.”

Tina grimaces. “Maybe you should see a doctor, Heather.”

From inside the stall, Heather’s voice echos. “Yeah, Heather– I mean, Tina. Maybe I should.”

I’m about to open my mouth, say something about ginger ale or peppermint tea, but Mrs O’Donnell enters behind me. I dive into a nearby stall, pretty confident I haven’t been spotted. But, I leave just enough of a crack in the door to watch everything that unfolds out there.

“Ah, I should have known–”

Heather vomits again. Damn, how can she pull trig so much on so little?

“–the witches from Macbeth always travel in a trio.” Her heels click over the cracked, yellowing tile, but the way Lacy turns from the mirror gives even O’Donnell pause. “Perhaps you didn’t hear the bell over all the vomiting. You’re late for class.”

Hey. Idea. I dig around in my backpack and scribble on a piece of paper, leaning against the bathroom door.

“Heather wasn’t feeling well.” Lacy says. Again, confusing enough to sound kind! “We’re helping her.”

O’Donnell chuckles all airly. Like she’s any match for her. “Not without a hall pass, you’re not. Week’s detention.”

That’s my cue. I scurry out of the stall, presenting O’Donnell with–

“Um, actually, Mrs O’Donnell, all four of us are out on a hall pass.” I gulp and glance at Heather, who’s finally hauled herself off her knees. “Yearbook committee.”

It’s super hard to breathe as O’Donnell inspects my handiwork. It hits me that this could go horribly, horribly wrong, and I can feel Lacy’s eyes boring into a hot spot on the back of my head.

O’Donnell arches her eyebrow. “I see you’re all listed. Hurry up and get where you’re going.”

She goes to hand the note back to me, but Lacy intercepts. Once the coast is clear, she takes her time looking it over.

“This is an excellent forgery,” she tells me. A drop of freezing sweat runs down my back. “Who are you?”

“Uh, Ronnie– Veronica Ecker,” I stumble. “We were lab partners last year?”

Lacy’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t remember taking the lead on coolly dissecting a frog in front of me, it seems.

“Doesn’t matter. I crave a boon.”

She holds her glare on me. Jesus, why do I feel like I’m about to have my throat slit? “What boon?”

“Um. Let me sit at your lunch table. Just once. No talking necessary. If people think that you guys tolerate me, then they’ll leave me alone…”

What? It worked for Nancy Wheeler. Even if she had to boink Steve Harrington to do it, but I can't quite stretch that far.

The girls all chorus in laughter at me. Oof.

“Before you answer, I can also do report cards, permission slips and absence notes.” Dude, I cannot tell you where this boost of bravery (or foolhardiness) is coming from.

“How about prescriptions?” Heather asks.

“Shut up, Heather,” Lacy cuts.

“Sorry, Lacy.”

Then, she zeroes in on me. Takes slow steps toward me, just like Tommy Hagan did. But her stare is tearing strips right through me. I even freaking hunch as she gets closer.

“For a greasy little nobody,” Lacy says, her voice dropping low so I have to strain to hear her, “you do have good bone structure.”

Tina and Heather must already be tuned into this Lacy-only frequency.

“And a proportional body,” Tina adds. “If someone didn’t catch you during a basket toss, you’d probably only kind of fracture your spine. That’s very important.

“Of course, you could stand to de-hobo your wardrobe.” Heather goes so far as to flick the flappy pocket on the front of my overalls. “Salvation Army much?”

“And ya know, ya know, ya know…” the shiniest jewel in the crown hums, tapping her lipstick tube against her cheek, “This could be beautiful.” Her painted fingers pinch my chin and turn it down toward her–because I’m fucking tall. “Mascara, maybe some lipgloss and we’re on our way. Get this girl some blush– and Heather, I need your brush. Let’s make her beautiful.”

A manic looking Tina produces a vanity bag out of absolutely nowhere. “Let’s make her beautiful…”

“Let’s make her beautiful?” Heather snarks, but Lacy shoves a hand in her face.

Her eyes turn on me again. Dark and sparkly and… and… smiling. At me. “Okay?”

“Okay!”

Then, whaddaya know, smash cut, it’s the next freaking day. I don’t know how that works, but I don’t see another goddamn narrator so pipe down.

The halls are their usual shitshow– Billy Hargrove shoves the new Hellfire freshman, Gareth, into a locker. Eddie hauls him up by the collar and they run headlong into a gaggle of girls, who all scream because every nerd that plays a fantasy game is contagious.

“Don’t you dare touch me!”

“Get away, pervert!”

“What did I ever do to them?” Gareth yelps, exasperated. Hard not to feel bad for the kid.

But Eddie’s sage about it, even though he knows it’s as unfair as I do. “You’ll get used to it, freshman.”

“No, dude!” Gareth pushes back, verging on a panic attack, “Who could survive this! I can’t escape this–I think I’m dying!”

O’Donnell, hot on the tardy check, appears behind the both of ‘em. “Who’s that with Lacy?”

“Damn. Someone got a welfare increase,” Nicole Summers hatefully snarls.

“Who’s the babe?” says Andy Sweeney.

But Eddie Munson, oh-ho, Eddie Munson settles his eyes into slits. Anytime, any place, he’d know–

“Veronica?!”

“Veronica?” Cass and Carol caw.

“Veronica?” Steve and Tommy mimic.

And Lacy Doevski… she looks to her dutiful right, and smirks. “Veronica?”

And you know, you know, you know, life can be beautiful!

My whole life, I haven’t had a choice but to be one of the boys. My best friend’s a boy. I’m in a band with all boys. I’m surrounded by boys all the time who make gross boy jokes and do stupid boy shit. Nobody, not even my Granny, even though she fucking rules, ever asked me if… if I wanted to put on a skirt and get my goddamned nails painted. And it’s not as if I mind being on the more masculine side of things but, shit, is it so wrong to want something? Even if I believed what I was pretty much dragged up to believe, by all my friends and the world at large around me–that being a chick was totally dumb. Couldn’t I try it on?

You hope, you dream, you pray, and you get your way!

Lacy beckoned me into her walk-in closet, which was about as big as my bedroom and smelled of gardenia, and put me in a pleated skirt set that she said didn’t fit her temperament anymore. ‘But it’d work for a novice.’

Ask me how it feels, lookin’ like hell on wheels–

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” Eddie seethes as I pass, carried on the cloud of Lacy’s perfume.

‘My god, it’s beautiful!’ I’d said, spinning around in the stupid, flippy skirt.

“Those bobbleheads totally morphed her!”

‘I might be beautiful!’ I mumbled, fingering the diamond studs she put in my ears that she made Heather pierce.

“She looks like–like–” Gareth chokes.

And when you’re beautiful…

“A girl!”

… it’s a beautiful fuckin’ day!

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Now, at first, I think I’m fucking flatlining, expecting to wake up with goddamn tubes down my throat and shit– but I’m not. I’m in my regular old bed, with my regular old alarm clock screaming at me. I smash my hand down on it and jerk up, out of the covers.

First place I go is my wardrobe.

I feel the physical sensation of my heart dropping like a lead kite when I flick through my old thrift store samesies and Granny Ecker hand-me-downs to find no such minty plaid skirt set.

Just a dream.

Which is such a bullshit conceit. Sorry to break it to you.

I admit defeat and pull on my overalls, scrunching my ballcap over my head and muscle out the door. I’m already late, for me.

But–then, there’s an apparition hovering at my mailbox.

Someone who excitedly takes notice and waves when she catches me staring, arm stretching out of her fur-trimmed peacoat–which is looking a tiny touch shabbier than it used to these days.

“Happy early acceptance day, asshole!” Lacy Doevski sing-songs. Sing-songs. Which is… something I have to readjust to, given the liminal version of her I just experienced.

“Oh.. jeez,” I mutter, feeling dazed still, “I forgot that was today.”

Lacy’s brow gets all pinchy. “You okay? You look like steamed dogshit.”

“Thank you so much,” I drawl sarcastically, “It’s nothing, I slept funky. Where’s Eddie?”

Lacy shifts in herself a little, tucking hair behind her ears and avoiding my eyes. “How should I know?” Right. That. The daylight version of this little tryst they pretend they’re not having. Honestly, if the two of them would just bang it out– well, maybe things might be worse off and this weird little platonic ménage à trois of ours would be totally ruined forever, but at least I’d have to stop tiptoeing around them. “Come on, are you gonna open it or what?”

Oh, right. There’s a whole gravity of a situation supposed to be happening here.

I kind of feel the saliva gathering at the hinges in my jaw, you know the way you do when you’re about to puke your guts up? But then, I remember. Bulimia is so sophmoronic.

I yank open that rusty mailbox and a thick, thick envelope with a New York University imprint sits inside. I yank it out.

Lacy stares at me like I’m the dude holding the thing the Ten Commandments were written on.

I’m not drawing this shit out. I am not teasing myself, dude, you couldn’t pay me to–savagely, I rip the envelope open, which makes Lacy cringe. She probably has a little knife for these sorts of things, knowing her.

Dear Veronica,

Congratulations! I am delighted to inform you…

“Holy fucking shit.”

“Well…?”

I thrust that hot, heavy paper right into that pretty girl’s face. “Full. Goddamned. Ride.”

Lacy gasps, grasping the letter so hard it leaves claw marks. Her eyes shake back and forth, reading and re-reading the whole acceptance ream. It’s weird, and I know it’s weird, but I’m standing there, looking at her and trying to make her make sense with the Lacy that showed up in my dream. That girl existed, and she was mystifying, in a horrifying way. A total reign of ice cold terror. But now, I’m staring at Lacy, who’s all short, weird angles and specific enthusiasm and… it’s hard to see how those two girls ever lived in the same body.

She’s a little Whitman. She’s got those multitudes. And, actually, so do I.

“I knew it!” Lacy hisses, “And I want you to know that I’m not at all bitter. While I should be celebrating early acceptance with you, I’m glad–”

I grin at her. “You’re a little bitter.”

“Fine, I’m a little bitter, but I’m mostly excited. New York City, Ron! That’s transformative!”

“Yeah… speaking of. Lacy?”

“Yes?”

Dreams are meant to be prophetic and shit, right?

“Doyouwannagivemeamakeover?”

She cocks her head at me. She still hasn’t let go of that acceptance letter yet. “What?”

“Do you.” I take the envelope from her hands. I know she’s capable of identity theft. “Want to give me. A makeover.”

“Huh?” Her fingers stay curled around imaginary paper. Oh, my god.

“You heard me! And I hate repeating myself!” I flail a little. I get like that, quick to bug sometimes. “Look, you said it, New York is gonna be… transformative. I’m going to be a freaking lawyer, dude, fingers crossed, all going well.”

Lacy nods, not a hair out of place, with perfect confidence,“You are.”

“And when was the last time you saw a lawyer wearing fuckin’ overalls?! Huh? The people vs Howdy Doody?”

“I like your overalls.” I know she’s saying this because it’s the right thing to say, and she’s been practicing doing that really hard. She also might like them now, after repeated exposure, in a Stockholm syndrome sort of way.

“But they don’t scream esquire,” I impress upon her. And it’s true. I truly do believe that I can’t set foot in New York fucking City looking like I just fell off the back of a turnip truck–nor do I want to.

It takes a big fat beat, but her face changes. Lacy looks almost dastardly–dark, sparkling eyes like Lacy from the dream. She looks me right over, making the calculations of how to reupholster tragically unfashionable me in her mind. And then she arches her eyebrow.

“Well, remember… you asked, Veronica.”

#published by powder #r. ecker by powder #hai brainrot #ronnie ecker #stranger things fic #l. doevski by powder #this is really just wish fulfillment for me it's been stuck in my maladaptive head for weeks

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halfway-happyyy · 2 years

Text

new year’s day (rooster bradshaw)

the result of being purely in my feelings and listening to taylor swift. no warnings, fluff only.

Your home is brimming with friends and a scant few family members, but there aren't enough of them to make it feel like home, to make it feel like San Diego. It’s where you usually prefer to spend the thirty-first of December each year- and you are dismayed to find yourself longing for it, but the decision to stay tucked away in your borough of the city this year had been a mutual one.

Rooster has been the heartbeat of the festivities this evening; an assortment of comfort food from the golden days of his childhood- which he spent the last day preparing- and some of your favourite snacks, lay in an array of dishes on the dining room table. An ancient tabby cat that you had rescued from a dank alleyway a couple of years ago, winds its way through tangles of pant-suited and stockinged legs, blissfully oblivious to the chaos that is about to ensue. His yellowed eyes are keen and utterly uncaring, and you long to follow him to the bedroom at the end of the hall, where you’ll lay down with him on the bed, your fingers lost in oceans of soft, ginger fur. What you really want is to wake up hours from now to the notion that your home is void of people again, the first of January and the rest of the year, laid out before you like a blank canvas.

“You have a beautiful home,” someone tells you as they pass by on their way to the snack table.

You mean to tell them thank you, but they’ve already disappeared into the throng of people.

Clocking the watch face on the underside of your wrist, you take note that you are fifteen minutes away from the countdown and a sigh of relief exits your parted lips in the form of a small puff of air. You couldn’t be sure when the switch had occurred, but at some point in the last couple of years, being around large crowds of people began to deplete your energy in ways you could never have fathomed before. Where you once thrived on the presence of many people, of myriads of conversations, it now exhausted you to every extent.

A pair of arms, warm and utterly familiar in their touch circle your waist and Rooster drops his chin to the curve in your shoulder, his breath fanning out over the back of your neck in warm waves.

“Have you eaten anything tonight, kid?”

You smile and gesture toward the laden food table. “I ate my weights worth in pimento cheese about an hour ago.”

“That’s my girl.” He laughs and presses a chaste kiss to the top of your head.

You turn in his embrace and cock your head to the side, studying his features. There are no readily telltale signs that he misses Fightertown as much as you do, but you also know him better than that.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” You ask, after a couple of minutes.

Rooster grins wide and nods his head, his top-shelf whisky orbs are bloodshot and unfocused with unbridled happiness and the glass clutched in his grasp is a mere sip away from being void of wine completely.

“Can I tell you something?” You ask.

He nods his head.

“You have to come closer though,” You whisper.

He offers you another wide beam and bends his head low so that you can tell him what you need to say.

“I love you, Rooster.”

He pulls away to reveal a shyness you haven’t been privy to in years- and a gruff laugh to match, as he circles his arms around your waist ever tighter.

“I love you too, kid.”

Ten minutes lapse, and you decide at the last minute to head to the balcony to ring in your new year. You lose yourself in the noise of the city around you, and in the cacophony of everyone else’s celebrations. Though its loud, it’s nothing compared to the inside of your house, and you allow yourself a deep breath of fresh air. A December (or is it January now?) chill stings your cheeks and makes you feel more alive than anything behind you- save for maybe Rooster, ever did. You can hear them all inside now; the choir-like chant of a myriad of voices counting down the final seconds of the year. The balcony door opens, and with it a rush of warmth. Rooster appears beside you, sporting a headband with golden stars that depict the new year, and flop around merrily in the wind. Wordlessly, he adorns you with the same headband and places two glass atop the metal railing.

“It’s almost time, kid.”

He pops a bottle of Veuve Clicquot on five, and pours for you, the distinctive orange label nostalgic to you in every way. You view his figure in the scattered lighting around you, clad in a crisp, white button-up, black pressed trousers and multi-colored socks. Taking a sip of the effervescent alcohol, you revel in the tickle of the bubbles on your tongue, and in the slight sting as they slide down your throat and warm in your belly. The muffled notes of your guests inebriated version of Auld Lang Syne can be heard from inside.

“Three… two… one… Happy New Year!”

He reaches for you then, pulls your frame against his and kisses you like it’s the last time he’ll ever have the pleasure. When he breaks away, you are both breathless and grinning like idiots.

“Happy new year, kid.” He murmurs.

Another gust of warm air as Jake steps out onto the balcony with you, brandishing a polaroid camera.

“Smile, you two!”

Doing as he’s told, Rooster slings an arm around your shoulder, pulling you back into the warmth of his chest. Though sleepy from the bubbles catching fire in your belly, your smile is wide and genuine.

Rooster settles in a few seconds later, eyes fluttering shut as he sinks into the blissfully warm, sudsy water before you.

Your home is void of the last inebriated straggler around one o’clock in the morning. The only indications that they were ever there at all, are in the scattered wine glasses, polaroid photos, and confetti littering the hardwood floor- precious remnants from an evening well spent. You know it all needs to be dealt with, but the hour is nigh, and your bathtub calls out to you like a siren song. Rooster follows you to the washroom down the hall, where nimble fingers work the zipper down your dress, where you shed the useless material with an audible sigh of relief. You settle into the tub running while he discards his own clothing, and sidles in to the near-scalding water with a very audible sigh of relief.

You are quiet as you revel in your first few minutes of aloneness and utter silence, and when his eyes fall open again, he is grinning sleepily.

You quirk an eyebrow in question. “What?”

“You have a piece of confetti on your cheek.” He reaches toward you, a dripping finger brushes the shiny piece of plastic away from your face, leaving a miniscule trail of lavender-scented suds in its wake.

You regard each other with an intensity reserved only for painfully intimate times. Neither of you feel compelled to say much- one of things you love about him (and there are many things) is that the silence never feels imposing.

He reaches for your hand, takes it in his and brings it to his lips, indifferent to the suds that now gather on them.

“I am eternally grateful for you, kid. For our home, for the cantankerous feline that takes up just the right amount of space, for our life together.”

He squeezes your hand thrice beneath the water.

I love you…

Melancholy- caused by the imminent passage of time, had packed ice around your heart all evening, and now, a warmth gleaned from his words and from the tender way he’s looking at you now, helps to thaw it out. You take a deep breath and smile at him, the promise of looming adventures, of boundless laughter to be had with him, warms your heart even further.

“Happy new year, Rooster. I can’t wait to see what this year brings us.”

#rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster bradshaw imagine #rooster bradshaw fluff #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw #tgm #fluff #writing

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a-luyarus · 1 year

Text

new years resolution: actually do enough art this year to have an end of the year art summary

#cacophony in the choir #very sad but i barely drew at all this year #life got so busy :[#i miss drawing my silly little guys and posting on here

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actual-changeling · 1 month

Text

poetry/flow of consciousness that got a bit out of hand

—

It gets hard to find reasons once you think about it too hard. Does it matter, really, any of this, when my head will come out the other side exactly as it is? When change is little more than the empty promise you tell yourself at the end of the day to fall asleep?

Tomorrow, it will all be different. Tomorrow, I will become a new person. Tomorrow, all my problems will no longer be too heavy to carry. Tomorrow—the day that never comes, no matter how long you wait for it.

There is only now, this moment, this exact fraction of time that is over before we even acknowledge it, and yet the universe is irrevocably changed with every single one. I blink and matter moves, electrons get flung into space and caught by atoms forming my retina, my optic nerve, my body nothing but a being of consistent change. Does it count, though, when change is the constant?

Is it still change when there is nothing else?

Nothing ever truly stands still, we're all moving away from something, our goal barely more than the fragile hope that we will open our eyes again tomorrow. Variables, infinite variables and probabilities, and yet if you look back, most of it is a straight path, a story told in the right order, a life that happened to be lived exactly the way you lived it. We think about missed chances and 'what if's—everything we wanted but never received, everything we got that we wished we hadn't—while neither of us would be without all of it.

Trying to find a purpose, a reason for the pain and suffering, an entity to blame so your screams go somewhere and don't ripple until they fade away, the universe forever changed and somehow the same.

There is no purpose.

There are no reasons, and we cannot accept it, the idea of life—short, unremarkable, unimportant—needs to amass to more than what we can process. Chance brought us to where we are, and it will bring us to where we will be, and when our bodies disintegrate in the ground until the solar system crumbles and slowly, oh so slowly, the universe begins to die, there will be no one left to ask questions, and existence won't have mattered.

There is movement regardless of whether we want it or not, and as much as there is a 'now' to preside in, we could all die tomorrow and it will change the universe like a blink changes your life.

It happens. It will happen again.

Something moves, something almost, almost touches, but it's never quite there, and somewhere, it will keep moving even when the ripples fade. Nothing ever truly stops being utterly alone, and yet it sings, it screams, a choir of change birthing another and another and another; life as we know it, time as it passes.

Maybe insignificance scares some—or many—people, the desire to build something that will outlast you is inherent to almost every being, but it doesn't scare me, it never has. Surrounded by noise, there is holy loneliness in being the only one who listens to the songs your body sings you.

Alive, alive! Stay alive, keep changing to be someone, yourself, and there is a sonata in the blood cells making you breathe and an etude in the palm you press to your cheek.

The change we carry, the change we are, ripples in a pond that do not fade until they do before they begin again. Throw another stone, close your eyes, turn off the light, and hope that tomorrow will come. Hope that the pond won't freeze now, hope that in the daylight, the change it elicits will give you the reasons you're so desperately searching for.

None of it will last, and while it might not matter when you look past the pond, the water is singing—and you are listening. You ARE the song, just as you are the choir, just as you are one single voice drowning in a cacophony of sound.

None of it will last, none of it will outlast the pond, yet for one single moment in time—so fractional it passes before we know it—there are nothing but ripples and nothing remains unchanged.

Then everything stops.

But it was there, missed by no one and preserved in nothingness, but it was—and maybe that is reason enough.

#alex writes #spilled ink #spilled thoughts #original poetry #original writing

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mists-reading-nook · 1 year

Note

[one final Letter Event ask since it sounds like you're starting a new one!]

{A running theme in my asks is Genshin getting their hands on messages not written for them lmao, I like out of context bs.}

{Game and Cult AU! Crossover with DDLC Where the Creator is in a relationship w/ Monika <3}

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

(Yae Miko notices mail with a heart sticker as a seal in front of her that spontaneously appeared. How odd . . .

(What's even odder is that the letter—containing two papers—doesn't seem to be addressed to anyone or anywhere in Teyvat. A just an unnamed Literature Club.

(And it's signed by their Grace.)

~*~📚~*~

Dearest Monika

I'm sorry that I haven't been at the Literature Club lately, I've been busy with Teyvat and my own planet. School's been kicking my ass and I probably should've come asking you for help, sorry.

In the mean time I've read each and every one of the poems and books you've sent me and can't wait to talk about them to you in person.

While you wait for me, please accept my poem love.

From Your Beloved ♡♡

P.S. Let's practice the piano again next time we meet!

~*~📚~*~

The infinite welkin

The confined land

Gaia and Zeus beckon me towards their kin

But my ears soul and body give no thought

I love no children of the skies

I love not the offspring of nature

The woman of my devotion is ones and zeros

Birthed by union of metals and electric currents

Again and again my soul will sing

The only of a choir

Preforming for only her

Only for you

My most ethereal songbird

For you are mine

For I am yours

I love you Monika

~*~📚~*~

(The next thing she knew, s̴o̷m̴e̴t̶h̶i̵n̸g̶ ̸w̸a̶s̸ ̷i̵n̶ ̷f̴r̷ ̵n̴t̶ ̵o̵f̶ ̶h̶e̴r̸.̶ ̶S̸ ̵U̶A̵R̸E̸S̵ ̵O̴F̶ ̸C̷ ̴L̷ ̵R̶S̸ ̶I̴N̶V̴ ̸D̵ ̷D̸ ̸ ̵E̶R̸ ̵S̵I̴ ̶H̴T̵ ̵A̵N̵ ̴S̸ ̵R̷A̷I̶ ̶E̵D̴ ̶H̴E̴R̴ ̶E̶Y̴ ̸S̵,̵ ̵E̵R̶ ̷A̷T̵I̵C̸ ̵L̸L̸Y̴ ̶M̴O̷ ̷I̷ ̶G̶ ̸ ̵N̵D̷ ̸C̶H̸ ̴N̶G̶I̸ ̶G̸.̷ ̵C̴A̴C̸ ̷P̴H̴ ̵N̴Y̵ ̵G̷ ̵I̶N̴D̶ ̶D̷ ̴H̷E̷R̵ ̷E̶ ̵R̷S̴ ̶A̷N̵D̵ ̴U̷N̵ ̴E̶R̸ ̶I̵T̸ ̷A̶L̴ ̵W̸ ̸S̵ ̷T̵H̶ ̴S̶H̷ ̷P̶E̷ ̵O̵F̵ ̶A̸ ̴O̵U̶N̴G̵ ̵W̵ ̴M̴A̵N̵ ̵W̴I̴ ̶H̷ ̶B̷R̷ ̴W̵N̷ ̵A̶I̸R̶ ̷A̷N̷D̷ ̴F̸O̵R̶ ̴G̶N̵ ̷C̸L̶O̵T̸H̷ ̸S̴.̴ ̴T̷ ̶S̷T̷ ̴L̶E̸ ̶T̷ ̷E̵ ̶H̴O̷L̵ ̵ M̶ ̶S̵ ̷A̷G̵E̸ ̵ F̵R̵ ̶M̶ ̵H̴E̷R̵ ̴H̴A̴ ̸D̸S̵ ̴A̸N̸D̶ ̸V̷ ̶N̴i̷s̶h̸e̶d̴. All evidence of the Creator's favor to another world gone just like that.)

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

{Corrupted text translation: something was in front of her. SQUARES OF COLOR INVADED HER SIGHT AND STRAINED HER EYES, ERRATICALLY MOVING AND CHANGING. CACOPHONY GRINDED HER EARS AND UNDER IT ALL WAS THE SHAPE OF A YOUNG WOMAN WITH BROWN HAIR AND FOREIGN CLOTHES. IT STILE THE HOLY MESSAGES FROM HER HANDS AND VANished}

{Now, Yae Miko knows that there's a Literature Club with the Creator's lover as a member, and somebody took the letters away from her, what does she do with this information?}

At first,she's quite amused by the whole interaction. The creator,having a lover? Quite interesting. She thought the poem was cute as well,and thinks it's sweet how close the two of you seem. As for your lover,"Monika" as you called her...

Yae would love to talk with her. Find out what this young woman did to capture the heart of the divine creator themselves. Yae wonders,maybe she could write a letter of her own to this Monika? Maybe she'll write one to you as well. It certainly wouldn't hurt to try...

Later that evening,she sits at her desk,looking at the blank paper. She decides to write to Monika first,as she was the one that originally caught Yae's interest.

Dear "Monika",

My name is Yae Miko,and earlier today,you took a letter that accidentally ended up in my care. I don't wish to intrude,but I read the letter,and I must say,you are a highly interesting individual. Tell me,how is it that you managed to catch the affections of the Divine Creator themselves? I'm quite interested in hearing how exactly you did it. Many vie for their graces love and attention,yet you seemed to have gotten it without having to do much. I'd love to hear about your methods. Do not worry,I am uninterested in their grace,I'm simply curious.

Now,about this "Literature club". I'm also very interested in hearing about it. What do you do there? From the letter,I can guess that you mostly write poetry,but i'm sure that isn't all that goes on. Is this club where you met thier grace? I have many questions for you,but for the sake of both our time,I will keep them to a minimum.

Do you and thier excellency often play piano together? I've never heard them speak of playing before,so I'm interested in hearing how well they play. Although I have no doubts of thier skill. We are talking about the divine creator after all. I hope to hear a response from you soon.

Sincerely,

Yae Miko,chief priestess of the Grand Narukami Shrine,Owner of Yae Publishing House.

Yae folds the paper,putting it into an envelope and placing it to the side. She begins to start on a letter to Their Grace,but before she can,the same squares of color appear in her vison,the same young woman appearing next to her. "There's no need to write a letter to them,I'll relay the message." Monika says with a sweet smile. Before Yae can day anyway in retaliation,Monika takes her letter and dissappears again. Yae blinks several times in suprise,before simply nodding. Alright then,I suppose I'll leave it to you... she thinks. Over in the literature club classroom,Monika is reading the letter with a slight smile. She supposes it wouldn't hurt if she sends a response...

***

And with this final letter,the letters from another world event is officially over!

I want to thank all that participated,I really couldn't have done it without you :]

I hope that you all enjoyed this event,and that you're ready for the next one! It'll be announced in a day or two,but for now,thank you for sending your letters in. I enjoyed reading them,as well as I enjoyed writing the responses.

~ Author & Mist

#sagau #genshin impact sagau #genshin sagau #sagau x ddlc #sagau genshin #♡mist answer's<3♡#♡letters from another world♡<3 #get ready for event two!!#as well as the soldier poet king fic thay will be coming with a full prologue very soon!

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s-milesart · 10 months

Text

Ashes to ashes. Memories, to dust. | Heartsink.

An old etching, charred but cherished.

Sanctified memories of easier days - of decidedly droll monastic toil and blessed children who deserved smothering love.

She would bear the worlds cruelty ten-fold to return to those days - but alas, days like those are gone.

Not forgotten.

--xXx--

"It is days like these, when my mind starts to wander. The quiet days, Agnes. Where no raiders threaten the poor souls of the fields, or where unholy abominations shake the land to it's core."

My mind yet wanders -- to days of quiet. Where most of my worries were whether or not I should hold myself more to the teachings of Her good book, or what should be made for dinner that night.

Did we get another shipment of carrots?

Ach, did the children have enough to eat that day? Especially with little Mary -- her sensitivity to the textures of what she eats vexes her so. She just cannot stand any fresh fruits we receive. She likes her things... Mushy. Makes quite a mess!

A donation that day? Oh! A noble from the Upper Blocks was here to drop off some sweets. I know that wonderful smell... Yes! Apple and Blackberry Jam Twists! The kids will love these so. I just hope She, Above doesn't mind if I sneak one or two...

More prayers today. Mother Superior believes we need as many blessings as we can get these days. I always pray for the children.

Andrea's eyesight grows poorer every day, and I fear we not have enough to get her a pair of glasses. And little Marcel, his education grows by leaps and bounds -- but we must find a scholar willing to take on an apprentice! A sharp mind like his needs a whetstone, after all.

The twins got into another fight today. Hellions, the both of them. I understand they both cannot ride the swing at once, but to have such a scuffle over it? I will talk to both of them tomorrow, when they've both cooled off. I might even surprise them with a slice or two of pie. But...

Something is... Wrong. I don't know, but even the children are starting to notice it. The well-water is starting to turn. I haven't heard the songs of the birds in the mornings. The Watch is telling citizens to avoid blocks in-case of... disappearances. Vivienne is even telling the kids to stay off the streets. Troublemaker she is, she's even cutting her courier services short to help around The Orphanage.

Even my dreams are starting to turn.

I hear it. Below us. An abhorrent thudding that keeps beat with itself. A siren call of evil. The pumping of blood to something that should not live. A cacophony of vile beasts, assembling themselves to make us all suffer. To make us all bleed.

And a vision, clear as day. The city, cracked open, rivers of blood pouring into its caved in ribs.

Screaming, endless screaming. A choir of suffering that never seems to quiet.

A sinkhole in our center, a pit of absolute hell spewing ash into the air. The sun, blotted out, day choked dark to signal the end.

An earthshattering beating, every pulse sinking more and more of the city into it's cavernous maw. And deep below... In the true center beats...

A Heart.

Goddess above, what is going o--

A cry. Looks like little Lucy is awake again. In the here and now. She's growing up awful fast. I keep her in my room, just in case. I glance at the photo on my dresser. A window into a past I still yearn for. But, alas.

I cannot have it. But Goddess above, I will fight for something like it. For the children.

#heartsink #oc #bunny #Sister Lucille #rabbit #bun #furry #nun

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anysin · 5 months

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Fic: He Rose Victorious

For @ninetimesthepain, a Jon/Michael with an interpretation of the "leaving notes around a house" theme. An AU where Michael kills Jon after Jon walks through his door in Another Twist, but it's not the end of Jon. Creepy, warning for violence.

He Rose Victorious

Michael slays the Archivist within itself, painting its own insides with his pretty red blood. It takes special pleasure in eating his eyes, and once there is nothing left of him, it makes the mistake of believing that's the end.

The recorders on their own are already a bad sign, implying the presence of something inside Michael that isn't itself. But when the cassettes themselves start to pop up, when they start to play, that's when Michael becomes livid with rage.

"You think you can survive within me?" it screams ín the corridors, tearing the tape out of one cassette after another. "You are in my place of power, inside me!" You will lose!"

"I'm not for you," the Archivist's voice responds, echoing around Michael. "I'm marked," the Archivist continues, and Michael could swear he sounds smug.

Michael races within itself, destroying every tape and recorder it finds. It has the nastiest, most enraging feeling that the tapes are just the beginning.

Tapes, the statements, are on the nose from the start; they are about Michael's essence in the beginning, then about Michael itself, then about Michael Shelley. Both recorders and cassettes sprout faster than Michael can destroy them, meaning there is usually a whole choir of the Archivist's voices speaking within Michael, sometimes precisely at the same time, sometimes at odds with each other, leading to a cacophony. Michael itself is supposed to be madness; it shouldn't be suffering from it.

"You can't hide forever," it snarls down at a recorder. "Your little game is surely very fun for you, but it will have a bitter end. I will see to that."

"He was born," the Archivist replies from the tape, throwing Michael's own words back at it. Somewhere, everywhere, dozens of other tapes play the same words, the Archivist's voice similarly satisfied on all of them. "He was pointless."

"You are pointless!" Fingers sharpening, Michael crushes the recorder in its hands.

But the tapes and recorders keep coming, merciless in their sheer quantities. Michael starts to slow down, without meaning to, and the game changes.

The first time Michael spots the Archivist in one of the mirrors inside itself, it loses control.

It rushes the mirror, smashes it to pieces and chasing the Archivist's image on every shard, shattering them into smaller and smaller pieces until it can't see his face anymore. After it's done, its form is bloody and torn, and it doesn't feel any better. It knows he will be back.

"I will find you," it calls out into itself, hating that its voice now lacks confidence.

The tapes keep appearing, gathering up now that Michael isn't trying to destroy them so hard anymore, even though it means it's filling itself up with the Archivist's voice, his words, his cruel pleasure. It destroys the next mirror that shows the Archivist's face, and the one after that, but with the fourth one, it stops to stand before it, staring into the Archivist's dark, empty eyes.

"What do you want?" Michael asks. It feels tired, for the first time in a while.

It's insulted when the Archivist turns his back on it in the mirror, disappearing.

The day it goes silent inside Michael is the day of fate.

It runs inside itself, searching every nook and corner and smashing every recorder on its path, until it finally finds Jonathan Sims in the heart of itself. The Archivist looks worn too, just as weak and pathetic as he has always looked, but his eyes are alive when they face each other.

"Michael," the Archivist says.

Michael screams and lunges.

The Archivist doesn't try to fight back when Michael wrestles him to the ground, when Michael turns its hands into blades and raises them high for a strike. He doesn't fight when Michael stabs him full of holes, only stares at him as his blood spurts out of his wounds, his eyes full of strange affection. He's smiling.

"Stop that!" Michael demands. "You're dead, do you hear me? You're dead!"

The Archivist smiles on, even as Michael drives its blades straight into his eyes.

Afterwards, Michael flees.

It steps outside the door and it has all intentions to hunt, gorge itself until it can't remember the Archivist's eyes anymore. But instead it ends up wandering around London, driven by agitation and dread, until it can't stand it anymore. It returns to the door and goes through it, to face what it knows will be there waiting.

The Archivist is indeed there, standing among his tapes and recorders, running his fingertips over them. He smiles at Michael as Michael enters, and now it's Michael's turn not to resist when the Archivist approaches it. Even as it longs to kill him again.

"What do you want?" it asks him once he's close enough, when he raises his arm around Michael's neck.

The Archivist utters a little laugh.

"I don't know. This is pretty new to me too, I've got to think about it. But now that I'm here-" He tightens his hold on Michael, pulling it downward so he can kiss its mouth. "I might as well try to know you."

#my fic #the magnus archives #jon x michael

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untaemedqueen · 2 years

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The Deal

Drug Lord!Yoongi x Coffee Shop Owner!Reader

Genre: Strangers to Lovers!AU, Angst, Fluff, Smut

Chapter 32.

Series Warnings (Will Be Updated): Mentions of Drugs and Drug Deals, Blood, Smut, Emotional Damage, Love, Gunshot Wounds

Warnings For This Chapter: Firearms, Gunshot Wounds

Looking out the passenger side window, you watch as the autumn leaves blow through the chilly wind.

Your car is racing down the highway and the sound of your family screaming at the top of their lungs sounds like some sort of abysmal choir goading you on towards the finish line.

The small velvet box in your lap feels heavier than anything though and you know it's because the gold engraved bullet with today's casualty lies inside of it.

Even without looking at it, you can just feel the weight of it.

The leaves, as pretty as they are, can't distract you for even a second.

Your mind is solely focused on Hyunwoo, you're running through memories of this man that has only ever been kind and supportive.

You remember the date and how sweet he was when you were acting like a psychotic teenager. Even when you were shot, you can see how disgusted his face was that you were even getting hurt so clearly.

Yoongi won't listen to you when you say that it might not be Hyunwoo's fault, he's hellbent on the snake's destruction. And who are you to stop him?

Your boyfriend went away for months and to be taken away from his unborn daughter and his woman… that amount of anger cannot be rivaled.

When the drug lord's hand intertwines with yours, it pulls you back to reality.

"You okay, sweetheart?" he asks softly.

His voice is drowned out by the others yelling and only you can hear him.

You give him a small nod and he lifts an eyebrow at how convincing your action is.

"Don't do this to me, baby doll. You know this needs to happen."

You simply shrug and the scarred man sighs loudly.

You haven't debated him on the events that are going to transpire, you just freeze when the topic even gets brought up.

"Babe… come on," Yoongi breathes, taking his hand out of yours and putting it on your belly.

When you turn back to the window, the car begins to glide off the highway onto the dirt road beside it.

The cacophony of voices cuts short at the swivel and the father of your child exits the car scratching his gnarled scar the whole time.

You watch him stalk around the front of the car out of the corner of your eye.

Yoongi opens up the passenger side door and nods to the road beside him.

"Come on," he goads, taking the velvet bullet box off of your lap and throwing it at your little brother.

Unbuckling your seatbelt, you fold your arms and step out of the car.

Your boyfriend puts his hand to your elbow and guides you away from the car and behind a large oak tree so prying eyes can't see a thing.

When the drug lord is comfortable, he places a hand gently beside your head as he leans against the tree.

"What's the matter, baby doll?" he inquires, putting his free hand to your side.

"Nothing," you chirp, looking down at your nails.

His eye roll is practically violent and his eyebrows knit accordingly. "Stop with that shit. C'mon. Talk to me."

"I don't have anything to say," you sigh.

Clicking his teeth, he taps his index finger to the underside of your chin until you look up at him.

"What's the matter?" Yoongi asks again, "you don't want him to die? You don't support what we're going to do? What? Tell me."

"I've said it before, I don't think this is Hyunwoo's fault. And I don't want to see him die," you admit.

The drug lord only nods thoughtfully, wrapping both arms around you and pulling you into an embrace.

He kisses your temple before whispering in your ear. "This motherfucker has wanted to be with you for as long as I can remember… you can't possibly believe that this was someone else. Seokjin told you what it is, the snakes stole that coke and got me locked up."

"I'm not disagreeing or agreeing with it."

Yoongi presses his forehead to yours and the scent of mint and cologne makes you feel at home and comforted.

"I can see the disagreement written all over this gorgeous face," he muses, running his thumb over your cheek, "I need to do this."

"I know, that's why I'm staying quiet. I support you all the time, you know that. I'm just not outwardly supporting this," you announce.

The father of your child closes his eyes and snorts gently. "What am I gonna do if our girl is born with her mother's hard head, hmm?"

You shrug once more and even though he can't see it, he feels it and he smirks.

"I love you," your boyfriend murmurs, lifting your designer shirt to caress the bare skin of your stomach.

"You know I love you too. We love you."

"And that's all I could ask for," Yoongi says, pulling away just far enough to see all of you.

"Let's just get this over with," you whisper, letting him kiss you once more.

"C'mon, sweetheart."

It's kind of unsettling to pull up to a compound that's not your own.

The snake compound looms large on the highest point of the city's closest mountain and just looking up at it sends a shiver up your spine.

You've been training with guns over the past few months and the shine that reflects from some windows automatically tells you that there are sniper rifles situated in the higher rooms of the mansion.

"Boss… you sure?" Jimin inquires, handing Yoongi the binoculars.

Your boyfriend raises an eyebrow as he puts the binoculars to his eyes.

"Oh my God these scared little pussies," he murmurs, throwing the device over his shoulder.

"Go up to the gate, noona," your brother suggests.

Turning your head to him, you grimace.

There's no universe where you would draw out an unsuspecting man to his death, especially a man that's never personally done you any wrong.

"Shut the fuck up," you warn Guk and he complies almost immediately.

Yoongi clicks his teeth rapidly as he thinks and his fingertips softly glide over his scar. "All of them are going to die. So what order do you want to take them?"

The drug lord is so deeply consumed with his revenge that he doesn't care about the danger that he could find himself in within a matter of minutes.

Namjoon taps on your shoulder and points to the gate.

Yoongi pulls out his gun at the sight of Hyunwoo who walks out of his mansion with both hands up high in the air and a white handkerchief held between his index and middle finger.

"What the fuck is this goon doing?" your boyfriend hisses, grabbing the velvet box off your lap and opening it.

"He wants to parley," Seokjin erupts quickly.

The drug lord fumbles with the box as his adrenaline spikes and his fingers are shaky when he picks up the bullet engraved with Hyunwoo's name. "I don't give a fuck what he wants. Fucking scumbag."

You can see the caution written all over the snake leader's face and without pausing, you climb out of the car.

"Y/N!" Yoongi bellows, shoving open his door.

Hyunwoo holds his hands higher when your boyfriend positions himself behind the open car door and aims his gun at his head.

"Get back in the fucking car!" Yoongi grinds out to you.

"No one is going to hurt anyone," Hyunwoo promises loudly.

You approach the gate and the sound of your boyfriend taking the safety off his gun seems to echo through the air.

"No one in my family is gonna get hurt. You're all gonna fucking die!" the father of your child screams out into the air.

"Hyunwoo…" you gently warn.

"I just wanna talk. I need to talk to you. Make him see reason, Y/N, please," the snake leader pleads, grabbing ahold of the large iron bars that stand between you.

"Let me in and he'll have to follow," you suggest.

Hyunwoo contemplates this for a mere second and when Yoongi opens his mouth to bellow once more, he opens the gate for you. "It's just me here, the others have gone into hiding."

You step behind the gate and the father of your child curses so loudly that it echoes through the air for seconds on end.

"Follow me," Hyunwoo murmurs.

"Son of a fucking bitch!" Yoongi screams, slamming the car door shut and chasing behind you.

"Please sit," Hyunwoo begs, opening the door to his library.

You do as told, crossing your legs and angling your head to the door when you hear Yoongi rushing up the stairs.

"Y/N! What the fuck?!" your boyfriend screams, bursting through the door.

Hyunwoo pours two glasses of whiskey and casually sits down behind his desk with one hand up in the air as he sips his alcohol.

"Get up and go sit in the car," the drug lord hisses, narrowing his eyes at you.

"I know how the tigers work, I know there's a bullet in that clip of your gun that's meant just for me. I know you're fucking livid but I just need to say something."

Yoongi holds his gun up, stepping behind your chair and shaking his head.

"You don't even get to fucking breathe. I lost four months of my life because of you, I missed watching my daughter grow because of your petty ass!"

Hyunwoo presses his lips into a hard line and he can hear how fucking furious Yoongi is like there's a ball of venom lodged within his throat.

Folding your arms, you thought you were going to be a mediator between the two but you're aware that red is the only color your boyfriend can see.

You'd rather not be caught in between and nothing you could say would help the situation that you're in at this moment.

"Sit down," is all you can say.

Yoongi grumbles under his breath and he listens to you after a moment of weighing his options.

"Whiskey?" Hyunwoo offers.

"Suck my dick," the scarred man spits, holding his gun up and closing one eye.

You run your hands over your face and hunker down for the upcoming brawl.

"I need to say this and I can't say this enough or more sincerely. I'm so fucking sorry that you got taken in but I did not put that motion into place."

Yoongi scoffs but he continues to listen only because he has a gun trained on the man.

"I would never, ever do anything to upset Y/N. My admiration for her was and is very fucking real. If anything would upset her, I wouldn't do it and I know how much she fucking loves you. I know how badly that would have broken her."

The father of your child scratches at his scar before widening his eyes. "Watch your mouth."

Hyunwoo holds up his hands, looking away from you to your boyfriend. "I did not tell my men to steal your coke and I did not tell them to plant it. I did not call in the anonymous tip and I did not help your papers get lost while you were in jail."

Yoongi sniffs loudly, mulling over the new information. "Then who the fuck did? My men have your snakes all over the fucking place."

"Heon. He didn't like how quickly I fell for Y/N, he thought she was trouble especially when she showed up at the event with you and how I flocked to her."

Scratching at his chin, the scarred man beside you tilts his head. "Well, you're all going to die so it's no skin off my bare ass."

You sigh loudly, shutting your eyes.

"I'm fucking upset that you got to miss out on your kid growing but you know that a boss is never going to give his family away. You'd never do it. All of my family has gone into hiding and they're going to stay there."

"Oh, fuck off. I'm not listening to this bullshit anymore. Y/N, go get in the car."

You don't move and it only fuels the situation more.

"You won't find my guys. They're out of the country and they'll be staying there for a while. What I can do is pay for their sins."

Yoongi sits up, giving his full attention to the other drug boss. "Go on."

"Take my life and leave the others alone. Don't look for them and don't-"

"Wait. Just wait-" you begin.

"I accept your offer," your boyfriend cuts you off.

Taking a large inhale through your nose, you shake your head.

Yoongi stands and gently lays a pair of black latex gloves in your lap.

"Yoong-"

"Put them on, Y/N." Hyunwoo insists, nodding towards you.

With a shaky sigh, you put on the gloves and stand, wiping down the chair you and Yoongi both sat on.

You can't even say you're sorry to Hyunwoo because this is vengeance that has to be met.

"I appreciate you taking the hit for your dumb fucking family," your boyfriend announces, walking towards the desk.

The snake drug boss finishes his whiskey before taking off his tie and running his rough hands over his face.

"Baby doll, I really don't want you to see this."

You put the rag you used to wipe down your chairs in your pocket and you close your eyes.

"I hope you guys have a healthy kid," Hyunwoo whispers, closing his eyes.

Yoongi seems to have softened up after the brave display of the snake drug lord. The anger that has been boiling through his blood for days on end has since diffused even for a little while.

"We're getting out of this business and doing something legitimate after this… for our little girl but you're the last task left on the list," Yoongi muses, stepping around the desk and pressing the mouth of his gun to Hyunwoo's temple.

Swallowing thickly, you turn your head to look at the books stacked along the walls on the bookshelves.

"Treat her right," the snake boss whispers, closing his eyes.

"Always do," Yoongi chirps.

Your eyes scour the shelves and as the seconds continue to tick on you feel your nerves becoming tighter and tighter.

There's a thickness in the air that tastes of misery in this giant fortified mansion and you can't help but feel like you brought all of this on in some way.

What if Hyunwoo would have just gone to a different coffee shop? What if you never agreed to that date? Surely you wouldn't have still ended up here.

Maybe you shouldn't have gone to any events with Yoongi so early on. Maybe then this handsome snake boss would continue to live on another day.

But it's all pointless now.

"Any last words?" Yoongi inquiries.

"I have a cat, it's gonna need a home. Python doesn't do well without someone around." Hyunwoo whispers.

"Noted."

The gun shot is so loud that it makes you jump and all you can do is shut your eyes the same way Hyunwoo did on the night of the event where you were hurt.

The irony.

Without a word, you leave the home office.

It's sad to even think but something about what just happened makes you feel almost lighter in a way. Now there's nothing to offset Yoongi's plans.

Now you can begin anew.

And your boyfriend knows it all too well as well.

"Come on sweetheart, let's get you both home," Yoongi breathes, putting his arm around your shoulders and exhaling deeply.

Now your life can really begin.

<----- Last Chapter Final Chapter ----->

The Deal taglist – @jeon-junggoop, @btsarmy9593, @slothykrueger, @jcsmae, @milesjeon11, @cloudyblisss, @borahae-reads, @secretlycrazyhummingbird, @rjsmochii, @sugas-bbygirl, @ggukkieland, @hyungieyoongi, @chxmachxps, @dvalitaes, @vintageroses10, @maerawrrr, @flowerblu00, @veronawrites, @seoqity, @wozwaid, @hisbutton-nose, @sweetempathprunetree, @jinsearthh, @codeinebelle, @serious-addiction, @bt21chim, @rosquilleta, @dunixxd, @rkchmestizangmaldita, @openup-yourmind, @shesaysweirdthings, @marslena, @deathkat657, @yoonlattesworld, @that-funny-alien-28, @clutterfied, @belladaises, @silentkei, @btsnina, @shydestinyyouth, @thefreddieman, @kkklaudiaaa17, @moonchild1, @ronie1974, @jeonghanniehae, @rinkud, @giselleg7784, @bbkissme99

#the deal #btswritingcafe #thebtswritersclub #yoongi #min yoongi #yoongi x you #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #drug dealer!yoongi #drug lord!yoongi #yoongi smut #bts fic #bts fics

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