promiscuouspomegranate

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I wish my writing could capture the pleasure of demolishing your best friend in Mario Kart… I gotta work on that 🤔🤨

[promiscuouspomegranate]

I guess it’s been a year since I posted too 🤓

I’m working on more toxic lesbians because that’s what gives me life

I feel like that’s my blog at this point… girls with a rare mention of a man. Sorry to everyone who likes men, I guess ☺️😊

Since I’m NICE, I’ll let people vote on what they want first… (if you disagree with me, I’m going to do things to you)

[promiscuouspomegranate]

Lord help me… I’m not over Cocoon yet 😭

Am I the best artist? No!

Will I draw anyway? Yes!

[promiscuouspomegranate]

✧. ┊     CHRISTMAS

Happy holidays to everyone who celebrates! I decided to write some quick drabbles about how each of my characters would spend Christmas—and those who somewhat do or don’t celebrate at all—with YOU! Some of this might be a little incoherent, so bear with me!

Read or reread the oneshots before reading this! Continued under the cut...

₊‧ʚ LUCILLE FERN

CW: She's not very kind and is rude, if anything. She is trying her best, though! (No the FUCK she is not)

Lucille does not celebrate Christmas or much of anything. She would rather spend the day going to the city and does not understand the “holiday spirit.” If she wanted to be kind, she would be a fucking church-going horse girl or something… there is a reason why people call her a bitch. If you asked her what was on her Christmas wishlist, she would respond with a long sigh, rolling her eyes and asking when you got so materialistic—acting like she doesn’t drop every dollar at the mall.

In reality, the holidays were difficult for Lucille as a child, not in the way you are thinking. Her father would smother her with gifts, candy, and anything a normal child would dream of… but Lucille was not a normal child. She would always appreciate the presents but felt like they were meaningless. She would cut up her dolls and play surgeon with the stuffed bears. She would give the candies to her friends and the roast duck to the dog. She would scratch at the imported wool sweaters and toss the Sunday best into the back of her closet. She hated it all but had no strong reason to. Her father would insist it was because Lucille’s mother was absent, but, if anything, he was more absent than she was. At least Lucille didn’t have to live with the husk of her mother; she had to tolerate that incessant, shallow man’s blabbering every hour of the day.

While you guys are friends, she always makes an effort to get something very special for you since she knows the holiday has meaning. It is always something lavish, suspiciously so. One Christmas in middle school, you kept crying about how your mother and grandmother refused to send your letter to Santa. After staring off into space for a moment, Lucille asked what it is you wanted so badly that you couldn’t shut up. “I-I,” You would wipe the snot from your nose before hysterically sobbing again, “I really w-want a F-Furby.. But mom says they’re demonic, and Santa can’t b-bring demonic toys! I’m so mad.”

Lucille would pause, biting her bottom lip to stifle a laugh—you were so stupid, it was endearing. Did you seriously write letters to Santa at this age? You wanted toys? Later that day, she would go home and do her homework on the kitchen counter, occasionally glancing at her father. In the corner of her homework, she was drawing a Furby. “What’s that, honey?” “It’s nothing…” “It’s cute. Does it have a name?” “It’s a Furby, dad.”

“Uhm, what exactly is that, honey?” “I don’t know, but I know I want one.”

Of course, she got the damn Furby; she got multiple in every shade of neon pink and every variant of patterns. For the first time, she smiled at the Christmas tree because she knew exactly what she was going to do.

“Y/N, what did you get for Christmas?” She would ask, staring at them with her wide eyes.

“O-oh, just some dolls and my grandmother—”

You saw the furbies. You saw every single one Lucille had received and started to cry. She would pat your back, hugging you before pulling away.

“Don’t be sad, Y/N. You can take one of mine since I got so many,” She would hand you the ugliest one with a wide smile, “We can play with them whenever we hang out, or at least you can.”

Christmas tended to follow this fashion ever since. You would desperately want something, but your strict family would refuse or couldn’t afford it. Lucille would always come to save the day, giving you the ugly version of what you wanted and holding onto the pretty one. She hated half of the things you wanted—seriously, who would waste their time on a Nintendo DS or wear those hipster skirts? Whatever, as long as she had some form of leverage over you to make you stay.

“Butterfly, I heard your mom say you can’t afford to go to the city this Christmas to go to the zoo. I know, you wanted to go so badly, you wouldn’t stop fucking talking about it. Anyway, my dad said we can go together because I want to go shopping down there… Why are you so excited? I never said anything about actually going to see the animals. What are you, five? Maybe if you hang out with me, we can go.”

₊‧ʚ EZRA BORREGO

CW: THIS WILL CONTAIN POST-RESUSCITATION (after the ending) CONTENT! Remember, Y/N is severely depressed in the original with a DEAD MAMA, and Ezra is a bully. Rocky homelife, and rocky relationship.

Unlike Lucille, Ezra—though he hates to admit it—loves every holiday. For once, his mother and father will stop fighting, and Ezra feels a sense of peace and catches a glimpse into the life he desperately wants. So, he will gladly go caroling, sit through a stuffy Christingle service, and write a wishlist every year with his younger siblings. Will he dread talking to his aunts and uncles about every detail of his life and answering inappropriate questions? Yes, he will stumble off to the pond after having one glass of ponche navideño too many and smoke a cigarette he bummed off a cousin. Yet, the feeling of being inside the snow globe before it is shaken is something nothing can replace.

You used to visit for Christmas when you were younger with your mom (when she was alive) and dad. Your mom made some weird dish he never caught the name of, but it tasted good. You two would normally play out near the pond with rambunctious games like manhunt and tag and skate on the pond if it froze over. You would stay out there for hours, far past the curfew, but most of the adults were too drunk to care. By the time you returned, there would be so many presents under the tree you couldn’t count them. There would always be one for you because Ezra’s mother loved you so much. Something handmade, something beautiful. But the snow globe had to be shaken.

After your mom passed, you stopped celebrating the holidays altogether. It was too painful for your father to visit the Borrego family, and you could barely leave your room. You always set up some sad little tree for your younger brother, leaving cheap, poorly-wrapped gifts beneath it. Mrs. Borrego would bring a gift for you and your brother as well, despite the fact you insisted it was too painful to accept anything. She always made the prettiest knitted sweaters; they felt like a kiss on the faded scars that were scattered across your arms.

Before Ezra bullied you, he often threw snowballs at your window and yelled for you to come outside. He would see you appear like some ghastly apparition in your window, bundled in thin blue sheets with a dead look in your eyes. You would press your fingertips on the glass, opening your mouth to say something, before sobbing and shutting the curtains. He would sit there for a few hours, waiting like a dog until your dad demanded you at least greet him. It would always be awkward, and he would always wish to make you feel better. When he started bullying you, he wouldn’t even bother coming by your house because he knew you were miserable enough. Why rub it in your face when you were probably a mess already? It was like his little Christmas gift for you. After the end of The Fish Cries Too, you’re a part of the family again! People think you are reserved because you have matured and carry the trauma of losing your mother in secret. Poor thing, you must be crying so much because you are overwhelmed to be back. Why don’t you go out to the pond with Ezra and talk about it as lovebirds? What a kind, understanding boy. “Y/N, which tie goes better with your dress? Is it— Fisheyes, what the fuck are you looking at? Are you seriously about to… To think I was about to let you greet your bastard dad and brother, huh? Don’t look at me like that, you bitch. I said don’t look at me like that! Great, now you’ve ripped your dress, and we’ll be late to visit my grandparents!” V.S. during the party “You look perfect, Y/N. Don’t give me that look—you know I’m right. I’m so happy you ended up wearing that green dress. It really suits you well. Anyway, I got you something I think you’ll love for— W-what about Lenore, dear? She— We’re going to talk about this later… fisheyes.”

₊‧ʚ CARNELL DEARIL

This is just cute. There's literally no warning I can give other than cringe lol💜

Every year, Macherów hosts a jazzy little Christmas party that students selected by the professors play for. Obviously, Carnell is nominated to play every year, and it gets on your nerves. How are you supposed to enjoy Christmas when you never get an opportunity to talk to him? Of course, you don’t care though… you do not care at all. You are careless..! You’ll say that to your friend at least a hundred times before they tell you to respectfully shut up.

How does he feel about things? He desperately wants to show off his skills on the piano for you because he knows you are listening. He wants you to be captivated by one of his compositions. He wants you. When the band is finished playing, he’ll bow center stage, scanning the room to see you… but he can’t even find your silhouette. He gets butthurt about it and will stand near the bar the entire time, hoping to catch you grabbing a drink. One year, fate finally decides to be kind to both of you. Carnell finishes performing and sees you—what a sight to behold! You are wearing something crimson red, your hair is neatly styled, and you are wearing some form of pearl jewelry. His heart catches in his throat as he bows, and when he rises, you’re gone. He tries his best to keep his composure, slowly walking off the stage and into the crowd. He ignores every “You were simply marvellous on stage” and “You did an amazing job.” He only wants to hear it from one person. “Oh, hey Carnell,” you’d say, shocked to see him even though you had talked about it for hours, “You did— Well, you perform better than you practice.” “Wish I could return the sentiment.” You’d get frustrated and swirl your drink around in its crystal glass, tapping your fingernails on the stem. He’d swallow the lump in his throat, feeling far more flustered than before. “Are you just going to stare at me, C—” “You look rather lovely tonight, Y/N.” Before you could thank him, some stranger in the crowd would interject with, “Hey, is that.. Is that Carnell and Y/N? Look, they’re standing under the mistletoe!”

Suddenly, a crowd clamored for a kiss, and you felt your usual spunk disappear. Was this seriously happening… what the fuck? This was so cliche (I know honey.. I know..). Yet… the opportunity was too perfect to pass on—this was what you wanted. So, you shyly pressed your lips against his cheek, standing on the tips of your toes to reach him. The crowd would gently cheer before quickly going back to minding their business. “Sorry, I should’ve asked.” “You know I would’ve said yes.”

[promiscuouspomegranate]

Sorry for complaining so much. It just makes me feel shitty when I feel underappreciated, as anyone would. I feel like I put so much effort into writing, and nobody cares. I honestly do not know what you guys want to read from me because my inbox is dry. So, when I receive, “Pal, when’s the next drop coming?” I do not know what to say because I do not know what you want to read. I can guess what you would enjoy based on what has the most interactions, but that never seems to work. I can post polls on my blog, but when only three people vote, I do not know what the real majority wants. I can obsessively refresh my feed and see what is trending, but things are always changing.

To the few consistent fans who constantly interact, I love you all SO much. You are the reason I still upload, even though it is inconsistent. I hope you know I stalk your blogs every time I see an interaction from you. If you guys ever want to read something in particular, I will prioritize it over any other request 🧡

This will be my last crash-out post for now… but if I deadass receive another “Erm, when’s the next drop, heh,” I will explode. I am a human who creates because she loves to tell stories, not a machine who outputs writing for your continual pleasure!!!

[promiscuouspomegranate]

why does it take u so long to upload like no offense but u always take so long

First of all, what happened to hello? Straight to the point, aren't we? Normally these "asks" try to sugarcoat it, but I guess we feel bold now. Second of all, what the scallop? I understand I take a while to upload, but that is because I am a perfectionist. If there is a detail I do not like, I will go back and change everything. Also, I have a life and education outside of this blog—I do not get paid or acknowledged enough to make this my main focus. I have midterms coming up again, so much homework it has put me in generational debt, and so many books I need to read that the list could be a Tolstoy novel. I’m not trying to be rude to you, but this is not the first “ask” I have received asking me why I take a long time to upload. Honestly, it is frustrating that when I get notifications on Tumblr, I am not receiving compliments or asks, but rather, I am receiving questions like this. If you value my writing, give me time to write. I simply cannot half-ass something because people want more—think quality over quantity. You can always find another blog if you are displeased with how long it takes me to upload. I feel like AI has made readers think that writers can put out work every hour because of the immediate response. I hate to break it to anyone, but writing takes time and effort. If you read my most recent story, you might have noticed all the syntax and symbolism I wrote into it. Did you count the sentence structure and notice the repetition of sixes? Did you look up the names and realize they mean certain sins each character has? Did you notice the specific words I used instead of stating things plainly? That takes a large portion of time to accomplish. I love to write, and I love to write well. I apologize if that takes time, but I cannot keep opening Tumblr to see this bullshit. Also, if my anonymous asks are just going to look like this, I am going to disable them... because no way in HELL am I going to get badgered by someone who can't even fess up to who they are.

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𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ PRINCE THATCHER

"I won't share you, no / I won't share you / With the drive and ambition / The zeal I feel / This is my time." I won't share you, The Smiths

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ ONE-SHOTS

₊‧ʚ Aching Autumn

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ HEADCANONS

₊‧ʚ N/A

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ DRABBLES

₊‧ʚ N/A

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𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ CARNELL DEARIL

"I can't stop, I can't breathe, I can't think / I'm in love again / I don't need, I don't eat, I don't sleep / I'm in love again." — The Boy, Smashing Pumpkins

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ ONE-SHOTS

₊‧ʚ Illicit Ivories

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ HEADCANONS

₊‧ʚ N/A

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ DRABBLES

₊‧ʚ Ramble 1

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𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ EZRA BORREGO

"Can't stand this, still wanna know you / You were never mine / I don't need it, still can't believe it / But I'll never lie / I love you, fine." — I love you, fine, Automatic 𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ ONE-SHOTS

₊‧ʚ The Fish Cries Too

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ HEADCANONS

₊‧ʚ N/A

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ DRABBLES

₊‧ʚ Ramble 1

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𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ LUCILLE FERN

"My eyes adored you / Though I never laid a hand on you / My eyes adored you / Like a million miles away from me / You couldn't see how I adored you." — My eyes adored you, Frankie Valli

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ ONE-SHOTS

₊‧ʚ Cocoon

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ HEADCANONS

₊‧ʚ N/A

𐑺 ‧₊˚໒꒱ DRABBLES

₊‧ʚ N/A

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Hey guys!

I just wanted to let you know that I will be updating my blog frequently today, so it’s easier to find my works. Also, I’ve decided to start writing shorter things like one-shots, headcanons, or little blurbs so you can get more content.

Thank you!

[promiscuouspomegranate]

|| COCOON

fem! yan x fem! reader TWs: So fucking unsettling.

Lucille was a pretty girl—obnoxiously so. She was the kind of pretty that would cause one to strain their neck in search of their own reflection to see how ugly they were in comparison. They would always be uglier than her and often would blush for the shame of their own homely faces or plain appearance. This is how Lucille knew she was a pretty girl, not because people told her—no, they were far too insecure to do so—but by how miserable they looked whenever her presence graced the room. With whatever soul she had, she felt a deep, almost sadistic pleasure in it, but with how her concealed lips would form into a thin smile, nobody knew. Her father would often scold her for her debauched behavior and often wondered what he did wrong; perhaps he had been too lenient or delicate with his precious child—though he never did anything of any nature, he was simply there. Lucille hated the man but had no justification for her hatred, as he never laid a hand on her or yelled with a belligerent tone. She surmised that he had some hidden evil that he dared not to tell her; perhaps he was a drunk, a sloth, or a degenerate. Yet, she knew why she really hated the man, because she knew that behind his glassy baby-blue eyes, he saw her.

Lucille’s eyes were far prettier than her father’s and, if she ever met her whore of a mother, her eyes would be prettier than that skank’s. They were wide malachite-colored things that usually had pupils so dilated you could see your reflection in them. Her most recent ex-boyfriend frequently teased her and said he always thought she was high out of her mind. He would have to repeat himself more than once whenever he said anything. She never paid any attention. He left her at the start of spring break, and a day later, he left Duruston. Nobody remembered his name, they just knew him as Lucille’s boyfriend.

She wanted to leave Duruston too, but she did not have the money or the means. So, she spent all her time doing the usual things—wandering the strip mall, getting her nails done, letting the artificial glow of the tanning salon mask the shadows she couldn’t. At the bug-infested diner, she picked at greasy fries with her friends, spoke in half-laughs, and ended most nights at the cemetery. Most of the time, she did not have to even glance at her thrifted designer purse; everyone paid for her things. They just expected favors in return.

Except for Butterfly. Butterfly never asked for favors, except for that one time when she bleached her hair, and half of it fell off in the shower. Butterfly was a sweet girl, the sweetest girl Lucille had ever met—Lucille was so convinced of this that she thought if she were to bite into Butterfly’s pallid skin, all her teeth would rot out. Lucille had a habit of noticing every little thing Butterfly did; her green eyes would often sparkle with some form of stolen light and shine with a glow akin to grief. Butterfly never noticed this. She was always too busy fidgeting with the hem of the blue sweater Lucille bought for her.

“You’re cold again,” Lucille mumbled before turning down the C.D. Butterfly made for her—a collection of David Bowie’s greatest hits. “Hm?” Butterfly’s head perked up from the magazine she was reading, “Sorry, I didn’t—” “We should go to the tanning salon; I want to tan again. Am I pale? I think I look pale, and you know Blake doesn’t like ghostly girls.” “We could, but I hate it there. You could get skin cancer one day, Lucy,” Butterfly closed the magazine and tossed it over the bed, “I worry about—” “I’ll grab my purse, just wait in the car, okay Butterfly?” “God, would it kill you to call me…” Lucille exited her bedroom, gently closing the wooden door behind her. She traced her well-manicured fingers across the yellow walls, counting how many individual linoleum tiles were on the floor. She reached the kitchen and found a Franklin taped to the refrigerator beside a sticky note that read “For dinner — Dad.” She stuffed it into the pockets of her jeans, grabbed the keys from the counter, and left the house. The winter sun was sinking into the line of pine trees just beyond her house, seemingly disappearing and only leaving an embryo-colored glow in its wake. She started her father’s Ford Focus, honking the horn three times so Butterfly would rush out the front door. She had timed Butterfly’s movements in the back of her head; right now, she was probably taking a deep breath and reciting a prayer. In two minutes, she would come stumbling out the front door, holding her star-shaped messenger bag and rummaging around for the latest C.D. her mother let her buy. “You’ll like this one,” Butterfly smiled, her head tilting down and a light, coy blush crept over her face, “My grandmother recommended some oldies to me recently, I— I really love them.” “It’s so… you,” Lucille sighed, rolling her eyes as she tuned out the voice of  Frankie Valli for the hundredth time. “Is that a compliment?” Butterfly’s blush turned shameful, and she paused the C.D., fidgeting with the radio, “Never mind, we can listen to the station.” The rest of the car ride was silent. Lucille was not expecting that outcome at all—no, something was terribly wrong with Butterfly. She broke a part of her nail as she held the wheel, choking the hot-pink faux fur cover, ripping the fuzz off with her index and thumb. Her dilated eyes stared at Butterfly, who was too occupied fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. The sweater Lucille bought for her. “Can we park close to the salon this time? I don’t want to walk through the drizzle,” Butterfly’s hand found its way on top of Lucille’s, cautiously placing her calloused fingertips on her slender fingers. “Anything you want,” Lucille mumbled, finally facing the road again, and loosening her grip from the wheel. “Oh, you chipped a nail. You’ll—” “I’ll get Blake to pay for my new set. He said he would after what I did for him last week,” Lucille pulled the car into the parking lot. Butterfly took her hand off Lucille’s and grabbed her messenger bag, leaving Lucille alone to take a deep breath. Lucille took many shallow breaths, and she felt like she was stealing all the air from the world and choking on it. She watched Butterfly walk into the tanning salon—that idiot was probably fumbling over her words. Lucille decided to help her, again.

“Uhm, no I just— She should—” “I want room number 13, and bring one of those folding chairs with you, for my Butterfly,” Lucille crossed her arms, sizing the old hag at the register. “Hah, that’s just a nick—” “Sure thing, ladies,” The wrinkled thing said, grabbing one of the folding chairs in the corner with her flabby arms. They entered the room, and Lucille locked the door behind them. She stripped herself entirely, except for the heart sticker she applied just below her navel. She stared at Butterfly, whose face was burrowed deeply into the library’s copy of “The Metamorphasis.” “Can you set the timer for me?” Lucille asked, slowly heading toward the tanning bed, and crawling inside. The lid hummed as it lowered, sealing her in a cocoon of sterile light. The bulbs flickered to life, casting an artificial sun over her skin, too bright and too close. The heat pressed down, heavy and suffocating. She closed her eyes, but the somber blue glow seeped through her eyelids, pulsing like the beat of some distant, unseen heart. “So, how was your week, Butterfly?” Lucille asked, picturing how Butterfly’s face would scrunch in response. “You know I hate that name, Lucy,” Butterfly closed her book, tossing it onto the ground, “Why can’t you just call me—” “Is it because Lorelei gave it to you? Her and I went to blockbuster recently, rented a copy of that movie you recommended. It was so…” “So me,” Butterfly filled the silence, her voice trembling like a leaf blowing in the wind. “You know,” Lucille decided to tease her friend, in hopes it would strengthen the girl, “Lorelei said—”

“Stop.”

“She told me that you—”

“Lucille, shut up.”

“God, you are so dramatic,” Lucille laughed, she could see the silent tears, and could taste the refreshing sweetness of them, “Lorelei just told me about the party you and her went to. You know, the one where you got wasted.”

“Can w-we please talk—”

“I don’t think you’re a faggot, if that helps.”

Lucille heard Butterfly choke on a sob and could picture her pretty little fingers covering her chapped lips, pitifully trying to hide her shame. She bet it was beautiful—like one of those paintings left to collect dust in a gallery. She heard the rustling of books, a bag, and then sneakers. When Lucille emerged from the tanning bed to change sides, the door was wide open, and Butterfly was nowhere in sight.

For the first time in her life, she could feel her pupils shrink, shrinking so small that she could barely see straight.

“Butterfly…?”

“Y//N?”

…

Twelve days, three hours, and a few minutes had passed since Butterfly last spoke to Lucille. Odd, very odd indeed, was all Lucille could make of the situation—Butterfly never did things like this; she always returned to her in the end. She had gotten with Blake, precious little Blake, who paid for everything she wanted, took her downtown, and wouldn’t even record Lucille when she did favors. He was a nice guy, really, one of the sweetest she ever got with. Lucille’s mind flickered through a kaleidoscope of futures—none of them hers, all of them too bleak, and drenched in colors too bright, too wrong. The nausea came suddenly, rising like bile. She stumbled out of bed, each step a stagger across the cold linoleum, the floor stretching longer than it should—maybe she miscounted the tiles?

“To be Mrs. Fern,” Lucille thought, “Is to be dead.”

Her feet sunk into the mud as she headed into the pine forest, her skin drenched in a cold sweat. The pasty moon cut into the woods, illuminating the shadows on her face and hiding her eyes in a veil of darkness. There was an unmeasured rhythm in her footsteps: one… two… three… four… five… six—a waltz of sorts.

“Christ,” she muttered under her raspy breath, “Know she’s out here.”

Then, in the heart of the woods, she saw her. Really saw her. Butterfly stood bathed in moonlight, every shadow bending to her, every leaf trembling in worship. Her face—soft, radiant—blurred at the edges, as if she was slipping between worlds. Lucille’s breath caught in her throat, a sharp, reverent ache. This wasn’t a person standing before her; this was creation itself. God, she thought, whatever was left of her mind ablaze. This is God. Tears stung Lucille’s eyes as she dropped to her knees, arms outstretched, trembling under the weight of revelation. How could she not have seen it before? Every step, every word, every glance—it all led here. To her.

Lucille crawled to her, her ears clinging to the end of Butterfly’s prayer. Lucille’s abhorrent body rose above Butterfly, and she grabbed her face, forcing her to look forward. She slipped her slender hands over Butterfly’s mouth, sticking her fingers over her tongue, choking her words.

“Oh, Y//N, why did you—”

“H-ahng? Hoo arh yoo?”

“You’re so—” Lucille’s hand traveled down to Butterfly’s neck, and she imagined what it would be like to kill a god.

“I can’t breathe.”

“I love you, Butterfly.”

“L-Lucille, is that you…?”

Lucille’s hands slid further, deeper, until the boundary between flesh and god blurred. The warmth of Butterfly’s body gave way to something colder, something unnameable. A wet, visceral sound filled the air—part whisper, part echo, like the woods themselves were holding their breath. Lucille couldn’t tell where her hands ended and where Butterfly began.

The ink on the missing posters faded from the constant storms. Nobody had been able to find poor Lucille.

[promiscuouspomegranate]

Incomprehensible Rambling

guys guys GUYS!!! Oh my goody goodness, have I come up with some ideas 🤫😏 you'll get a better story soon but i have this really interesting character in mind for the upcoming story (boyloser failure for those who forgot !!) imagine a reader (Y/N) who's been spoiled rotten since childhood but fails to hold any attachment to items. They have no concept of money and view everything—no matter HOW expensive—as just another trinket. This lack of attachment to items turns into the world and they spiral into a depressive episode. They start to crumble away and their parents no longer cosset or mollycoddle them. They're thrown into the "real" (bro is having their rent and utilities covered 😭) world and have to get a job. They're not the snobby "I'm above working" kind of person but "Holy shit this is so magical" while operating a cash register for the first time. This makes their co-workers jealous or amused but another recent hire is absolutely SPEECHLESS. He gets really curious about how the reader's life has been and they have a painfully awkward conversation. "Yeah, I used to float in our pool for hours at a time when I lived with my mom and stepdad. After that, I'd engage in *insert beauty microtrend* before *insert ridiculous ass rich person activity*. It all felt so empty though... sure am glad I work as a cashier now! What do you do?" "Uhm.. I-I have like.. 500 hours on Overwatch.. and—" "What's that?" Your co-worker starts to feel very bitter about your situation and refuses to believe you ever struggled with being sad. You have so much what the fart? How could you possibly be sad? Whenever you open your mouth and talk about your old life, it offends him. In fact, your happiness with working a job, learning basic life skills, and everything gets under his skin. His 4-chan days (before he upgraded to reddit ofc) taught him that people like you TRAMPLE over his kind heh.. sigmas unite! But you're not. You're just so... you? You have this random small encounter of... Y/N : "Oh, you're closing tonight, right?" Him: "Yeah.. I a-am.." Shut up shut up stop talking to me and looking at me i hate you wait why am i so sweaty shit do i have my axe— Y/N : "I thought you were going to play that game.. Is it Underdog? Shoot.. I feel like it's Undertop. Anyway, you planned to do that with your friends?" He can't even talk because what the scallop.. why are you TALKING to him???? Y/N : "I can take your shift for you! I think it's only fair I do since I missed my.. blah blah blah you're so sexy, you know? I love listening to you explain Alex G to me ! ;)" Holy crap... you remembered something about HIS life? Even his mother forgets his birthday on occasion.. wowzers! He exchanges the "Blackpill" (As the youth says) for the "Lovepill" and decides that you two are soulmates and he no longer hates you!! JACKPOT! He's totally going to make a playlist for you two on spotify and will rizz (stare at you the whole day) you up. I think this would be super funny to write but y'all.. lmk if you fw this heavy or if I need to take my anti-psychotics again.

[promiscuouspomegranate]

btw gang !!!! my little dancer is NOT the poll story. it's just one i've been cooking for a while and decided to get it over with and publish. your boy loser is coming soon dw !

[promiscuouspomegranate]

✧. ┊     My Little Dancer // 1

⇢º. AFAB! Showgirl Reader x Mysterious Person 🤫

.❥❧ Y/N temperament is confident and rude.

TWs: Stalking and extortion. More down the road

You are responsible for the content you consume! Stop reading if you feel uncomfortable.

I never liked the bitter aftertaste Marlboro reds left on my tongue, but I’d still finish the pack by the end of the week—a few days if work was particularly stressful. My former psychoanalyst remarked that I was stuck in the oral stage. I was too drunk to recall how I responded, but I am no longer welcome in his office or most in the city. Anger, what an amusing emotion. I forget where the quote comes from, I was always too pretty to pay attention in school, but most regard it as a temporary loss of the senses. I believe it is a heightening.

I took a final drag of the cigarette before I put it out on my aching neck. I flicked the butt onto the sidewalk and stumbled to the back door. A lithe, timid woman quickly scurried past me, fumbling with her string of cream-colored pearls as she muttered a few curses and prayers. I had half a mind to shout at her for shoving into me, but I was like any other gentleman—couldn’t bring myself to do it when such a pretty little thing was in tears. Poor girl just wasn’t cut out for the life of stardom; I could hardly blame her. Come into a jazz club with those periwinkle eyes and adorable angel curls, and you’ll only last a day before you break.

“Where the fuck ‘ave you been, Y/N? I’m telling ya, I can’t do this shit anymore! I can’t,” My beloved manager shouted in between unsteady breaths, “You’re on in five fucking minutes? Did ya spend so much time whorin’ around in school ya can’t read a clock? I swear, ya woman and your—”

“And our what, Kolenkov? Tread lightly,” I hummed as I strolled past him toward my powder room. I smirked at him to send a benign threat, “If you piss me off anymore, I’ll break the pretty little ornaments on stage… again.”

“Break whatever ya want… ya bitch!” He wiped the sweat off his lightly wrinkled forehead with an embroidered handkerchief and hoarsely shouted for a cola.

“Sweetheart, I think you need water and a beer,” I shouted from inside my room as I lounged at my vanity, “Too much sugar and your poor heart is going to finally give out.”

I muttered the sultry lyrics of my performance as I touched up my makeup. I never let another girl touch my face; jealousy tended to style me when I did. I opened the intricately carved drawer and gently rummaged through it.

“Where did I put it…?”

My practiced gentleness and poise dissipated, and I pulled the drawer out and angrily dumped its contents on the tabletop. In the process, I chipped a fingernail and felt like bursting a blood vessel.

“Laura, for the love of God, where the fuck is my rouge? I’m not wearing the cheap shit on stage anymore. Find me my Djer-Kiss or—”

“I uhm, I don’t know where it’s at, but you’re on in two,” Her lip quivered as she held her clipboard in front of her face. I pushed past her trembling form to get what I needed.

“My hair needs to be sprayed again! Where’s the hairspray at, Annie?”

“Like I know what you do with all your junk! Where’s my hat? Bettie, where is my hat?”

“Keep track of the men you meet up with after shows and maybe you’d have an easier time finding it, Annie.”

“Y/N, your fuckin’ rogue is over here,” Kolenkov’s legs trembled as he puffed out smoke, “Ya fuckin’ bitch! Get out there before you miss your damn cue!”

“Oh, go cool off you fat fucking tomato,” I quickly applied a dark burgundy onto my cheeks and powdered my face again. I rushed past fellow showgirls and slammed into Laura as I tried to grab my heels, “Laura, doll, either you do something useful or you get the fuck out of the way.”

“B-but your—”

I grabbed Laura by the collar of her silk blouse and pulled her close to my face.

“Did you ever wonder what you sound like to others? Because, doll, your voice is something so grating, I can’t even begin to express it to you. So, here’s how it’s going to work, okay? You’re going to stay the fuck away from me until I am shouting for you. I don’t care about what a backstage bitch has to say about my performance,” I took a deep breath and flashed a smile sure to break her heart, “It’s all about me, doll. Maybe if you lost fifteen pounds, you’d be able to sing with the big girls. Stick to Sunday choir, and I’ll stick to fully booked shows.”

I looked down at Laura as she started to cry and scoffed. She wouldn’t last a week more if she kept on fucking crying.

“Y/N, get the fuck on stage, now. I will finally fuckin’ fire—”

“You can’t fire what everyone comes to see; this place’ll close down the second I step out or realize I’m better than this joint.”

I glared at Laura again before reaching behind her to grab my heels. I noticed she flinched, and my brows softened.

“The fuck— I don’t have time for this,” I sighed and shoved past every other girl.

I strutted up the metal stairs and could hear the audience chattering outside. A scruffy man helped me into the bedazzled birdcage, and I slouched on the perch. I emptily stared at my fingernails and swallowed the lump in my throat. Everything had to be perfect.

“The other girls are melting away. Kolenkov is melting away. Laura is melting away. My chipped fingernail is melting away,” I mindlessly maundered as I heard Kolenkov tapping on the microphone.

“Welcome, ladies and gents. It’s truly a pleasure—a blessing from the Lord above—to see so many of ya faces again. Though, can’t say some of ya have aged well!”

I grimaced as the audience roared at his quips and wit; he wasn’t very funny or charming. I knew why they were here. I chewed on my already broken fingernail as he rambled about the girls and how he loved us to death.

“Just—”

“Now, I know when I’m no longer welcome! Honestly, if I didn’t love ya folks so much tonight, I’d have half a mind to kick ya outta here,” He chuckled, and it queued the audience into laughing as well, “But it’s time for the star of our little show here. Ladies and gents, meet the prettiest little peacock in all of America! Introducing our beloved Cherie Flambe, the Pittsburgh Princess herself. Careful trying to get a slice of that pie, ya have one bite, then you finish the whole thing.”

Blood trickled down my pointer finger as the crimson curtains slowly unraveled. I sucked in my stomach and fluttered my long black eyelashes, and the bird cage slowly descended. This was it; it was all about me. The lead saxophonist started to snap his fingers, and the white spotlight nearly blinded my eyes, but thank the stars, I was born for the stage. The second my wine-red lips opened and started to sing that jazz, everyone was utterly enthralled with me. What I wore, oh God, if only I could see those ladies' eyes as they bitterly whispered to their pathetic lover boy, “Why can’t you ever buy me something like that?”

I rocked back and forth in a vibrant array of blues, greens, and purples that shimmered underneath the hot spotlight. My bodice gleamed with vibrantly iridescent plumage that formed some sort of intricate pattern, dipping low enough to reveal the costars of the show. As I sensuously swayed across the stage, my skirt flowed and swished around my hips, and I made sure I not only ruffled tailfeathers, but showed them. As the show progressed, I tore away the skirt, revealing all the flamboyant little feathers adorning my legs. I knew the uptight ladies in the crowd would scoff and flutter their flimsy fans to showcase their disapproval. I wish the same happened to their senile husbands. I threw the old dogs out there a bone when I tossed my garter into the audience.

I blew kisses as the music came to a glorious swell, and I began to glide offstage. I didn’t bother to stay for the raucous cheering; there was always plenty of time to schmooze with all the gentle and rough men after the show. I noticed Annie’s legs were shaking and furrowed my thin eyebrows at her.

“Hun, you’re too much of a catch to be shaking like that. Save that for the lads out there, and they’ll lose their damn minds.”

“Easy for you to say, Y/N…I mean, Cherie! You have a whole lot to show off and, I dunno, I feel—”

“Save your feelings for when the audience heads home. We’ll open up a bottle some sucker gives me after the show, if you don’t find your own.”

I squeezed her and rushed off before Kolenkov could have a heart attack over our interaction. I ambled through the dressing rooms until I came across mine. I rolled my eyes as I noticed the old door was cracked open; Annie must’ve borrowed my lipstick again. I sighed as I sat down, staring at my face in the mirror. I plucked my eyebrows with my tweezers, hoping to cool off a bit—we weren’t allowed to smoke until the ladies were gone, something about etiquette. There was a shy knock at my door, and I knew exactly who was hiding behind it.

“Laura, I’m not actually going to kill you. Look, I— Just say what you need to say,” I yawned and poured myself a glass of merlot to unwind.

“You.. You have some gifts already. C-can I come in?”

“Just leave ‘em outside. Don’t really care unless it’s diamonds or cash.”

“O-okay.”

I waited until I heard her kitten heels scamper to the next thing before I opened the door. I noticed the basket of neatly organized letters, roses, exotic perfumes, and chocolates.

“No wine? Fuck, I’ll have to bat my eyelashes at Kolenkov, these bastards are getting cheap.”

I disregarded the rules of not being allowed to eat in costume as I opened a box of imported French dark chocolates, crumpling the note on top of it and tossing it out. I sorted through the letters and saved the prettier ones to read with Annie. I finished a bonbon and felt oddly nauseous as I stumbled across the last letter. It was damp—never a good sign—and simply had my name on it in a beautiful cursive.

“Oh, what the hell, why not.”

I ripped it open and choked on the piece of chocolate I was trying to swallow. As I spat it up, the half-chewed treat had the decency to cover my nudity. I languidly rummaged through the photos and felt tears burn my eyes. Usually, I’d never be terrified of my body, but I felt like the devil himself was dragging me to hell. I didn’t bother with reading shit the degenerate must’ve written as I tore up the photos. A fist pounded on my door, and I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted metal.

“Get ya ass outta there. You’ll have plenty of time to brood after ya show off to everyone. Got a couple of friends who wanna greet ya, maybe give ya somethin’ nice in exchange for a kiss or two.”

“Uhm, alright.”

There was a brief silence, and Kolenkov came inside.

“Normally, I’d tell ya to get ya shit together, but I’m feeling exceptionally decent tonight,” He sat beside me for the first time in a year and stared at me, “Spit it out.”

“I don’t know, I’m fine.”

“I hate it when women say that, y’know?”

“Better get used to it. Women hate you.”

“Atta girl! Now, c’mon, I’m doing ya a favor,” He extended his bulky arm for me to grab, and he escorted us out into the bar, “These guys are richer than the Rockefellers, I swear.”

I had never felt so exposed in my life, but I guess that was the life I was hellbent to live. I flashed the group a lovely smile, knowing my performance wouldn’t be over until I was alone.

[promiscuouspomegranate]

Oh my goody GOODNESS!!!

Y’all are the best, shut up!!! Thank you so much for liking what I write. It makes me feel appreciated whenever I get notifications… idc what they are, but I feel like a celebrity. I feel like I don’t deserve it, but I’m telling my mind to shut up so I can enjoy this! Love you guys!

I guess I have to be more active now… sigh

[promiscuouspomegranate]

guys WHAT DO I WRITE....

I know what you all are thinking "Gee... do we follow this woman for NOTHING? We have been starved for so long.. she's forgotten about us" (Insert the fuckass ant holding the bag here) but i respond with no my children!!! mother is here but she has been working this summer to chase that bag! i'm having random bursts of creativity as of now... so lmk if you want something!!!

level of cunt i feel after edging my three followers to read what i write