#Creativity is made by human mind and soul

[grumfield]

i'm humbly begging for tips on how to plot/structure a long-fic 🙏😔

ok please do not take this as law whatever, because I have been told time and time again that my process is insane and very antithetical to a lot of creatives but that’s how I work on literally all of my long projects SO. neuroses be upon ye below the read more.

I’m a hardcore planner and don’t like to start things without clear direction. If I’m planning something long that isn’t a self contained story, this is how I visualize it. It’s sort of the way that weekly serialized TV works, probably because I went to film school and used to want to be a showrunner, so I approach it with the mindset that I am the showrunner of my own weekly serialized one man show

And then each “story” is broken down like this:

(Keep in mind the beats above are very metaphorical. Funhouse just means the key facets of their character are on full display, like evasiveness or whatever, and seeing how they interact with the overall physical events of the world. Bad guys isn’t always bad guys, it’s just the looming threat, like a deadline)

Now onto the actual process. This is through the lens of shippy fics so it’ll usually be using terms/goals within that context!

“The thesis” is the first thing I decide and with and when it comes to fic it’s often a ship. It’s just the overall goal or point of what you’re writing. If you’re writing a shippy fic, your thesis is “X and Y Character get together” and everything that happens within that thesis is ultimately in pursuit of them getting together and then their happily ever after. The complexity of what happens for that to come into fruition is up to you.

“Thing I want to have happen” is usually a progression of a romance beat or the development of the relationship. Awareness of feelings, kissing, sex, etc.

“The story” that happens is the set of circumstances that lead to those beats, and for longfic pacing, I find it best to have each of these be thematically self-contained narratives to push things along.

Here’s an example:

Joe is in love with Brad, and they are in high school. “Story 1” they are paired together for a school project, and by the end Joe realizes that he enjoys Brad’s company, and invites him to his party. “Story 2” is Brad getting ready for the party, working up the courage to go, and then they play spin the bottle. By the end, Brad realizes that he likes kissing Joe. “Story 3” Joe has been avoiding Brad because kissing made him feel weird, but then he finds out they’re rooming together on a school trip. After they spend time together, they mutually realize they like each other and want to date; and screw. Then they go to prom, happily ever after”.

You have 3 separate situations with 3 different developments in Joe and Brad’s relationship. This sort of idea can be expanded to galactic scale, because ultimately when it comes to anything about people, human drama is all relatively the same. I think the important thing for longfics, both for keeping yourself interested and others, is providing some closure for some threads while opening up new doors, and this is conducive to that.

As for the individual story structure, that’s just how I plot everything self contained, it’s Blake Snyder’s Save the Cat Beat Sheet. I like compared to other plotting structures specifically because of “Theme stated, Fun and Games/promise of the premise, midpoint, and dark night of the soul.” I find that each of these are really conducive to understanding how to propel a story forward when you’re stuck, which can happen often when working on big projects.

Theme stated is usually what the characters need to learn, stated by someone else. It’s less a motif present and more of an emotional goal that the protagonist isn’t emotionally aware of and is resistant to. In romance it’s usually “you need to open yourself up more” said by a friend. This is usually a good thing to keep in mind in each scene, because sometimes if you write yourself into a corner; you can fall back on this and try and work out what your character can do next. Is Joe antisocial and needs to learn to trust others? and you’re not sure where to take it? Have him try being avoidant to Brad during their partnership, and Brad push back against that. Additionally, a great way to add drama is to have characters fall back on their old ways/not ingest the lesson of the theme.

Fun and Games/Promise of the Premise: basically just shennanigans that happen based on what you’re setting out to do. If Brad and Joe are working together, it’s the moments that arise from that. Moments where they clash, or go to the library, or one of them skips out on doing the project. Anything that they could experience while working together, as well as the romance implications of that. Bad guys close in is an extension of this—usually a deadline is approaching.

Midpoint: when everything seems great. For example, say you don’t know where to take Brad from the Fun and Games, have them create a really good project! They’re finished working, and realize they enjoy each other.

Dark Night of the Soul: they lose the project, they fight, Brad doesnt show up for the final practice and Joe feels betrayed. Anything that sets them emotionally back to square one, and then something happens to rally them once again to finish their school project.

In a big project, the big emotional issues may not be fully resolved from this, but from a plot basis, it gives you an idea of how to keep plot-based emotional momentum that all works through the ultimate development of the the thesis.

The theme of each arc should be different as they start to learn new things, because rehashing the same material doesn’t keep that momentum you need. So, if Joe learns to open up in arc one, maybe arc 2 is about him examining what he actually wants out of relationships with others.

Fic is a great place to do this because there’s so much shit you can mine for each story arc, and is really rewarding to readers when you bring it into play. And if you run out of that, eventually you can mine older arcs you write and bring their content back into play too. When you do this it basically allows you to have infinite arcs and shit if you want which is fun, and how TV shows go on for ages, for better or for worse

Anyways hope this is as in any way helpful! This is just how I do it haha

[metalfeather]

I forgot to bitch about this earlier but I was on Ao3 and I saw a tag that said "Ai generated text" and I'm just

What the fuck are we doing here dude

[ossiethegreat]

hue makes an appearance again.. if any of yall know me from tiktok and saw my first post about him ily

don’t mind me @toffeebrew @howlsofbloodhounds

Yapping below \/

So initially he didn’t have much of a story because I’m not very creative and I blank out whenever I try to make something original so yeah.

basically, if Color were ever to get error-d, I think he would be on a hike, probably in some random AU that had nice scenery or something. He’s wearing a rain jacket because it was raining at the place he was, and he he just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, and Error or some other entity was destroying it or something. As for how he got into the anti void,,, yall can use ur imagination 😭

(That’s the best explanation I can give, kill me)

I was more focused on the actual character than his backstory, so I’ll just explain my ideas of how he would act and such..

I called him Static Hue, or just Hue for short. (It’s a synonym of color I’m very creative guys)

I think whatever caused the error in his code amalgamated the human souls, and kind of made them fuse together, so Hue can never understand what they are saying because they speak over each other all the time. The different traits overlap and he feels mixed emotions all the time, along with intense mood swings and anxiety attacks. His flames also change color at a much faster rate, so people with epilepsy will stay FAR away from him 😭😭😭😭

Fun fact: he’s also blind. The only thing he can actually see is the color of his flames (which change all the time), and it tends to give him headaches and nausea. His grabblings are always out and just attached to his back so he can use them to move around.

As for the strings, they are very hot to the touch and leave burn marks on however he uses them on. They burn himself as well but he doesn’t pay any attention to it.

Hue’s memory is very jumbled, he didn’t necessarily forget about everything, but he doesn’t remember why exactly he does things. He knows he needs to help killer and protect him at all costs, but he isn’t sure why. He knows he hates Nightmare and REALLY wants that guy dead, but he doesn’t know where that hatred came from. And of course he naturally feels safer near the epic trio, and nervous staying in the same places for too long.

hue’s pretty obsessive over Killer for this reason. His need to help killer was multiplied by a gazillion, and he tends to just.. kidnap Killer and take him random places to keep him close. Sometimes he accidentally hurts him, but he doesn’t realize it, the only thing he can think about is keeping him safe and close to himself. On the contrary, he gets super aggressive and defensive at the mention of Nightmare, and if he were to see him face to face he would attack without hesitation. He knows his job is to keep Killer safe and away from Nightmare, and that’s really his only motive. He just doesn’t know where it came from.

Similarly to most errors, he has trouble speaking because of stuttering and glitches. He also can’t form very clear thoughts because the souls are constantly influencing his behavior. He has trouble explaining his thoughts and feelings, he tends to speak more in actions (as in he would crush you to death in a hug to show affection.)

anyway. If anyone wants to add onto this or share thoughts I’d appreciate it..

Here’s some older drawings of him LMAO

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Is Your Villain Dry? Internal Conflict is Needed!

@thewriteadviceforwriters

Villains aren’t evil just for chaos. there’s a whole world of internal battles waging behind that hardened façade. Dive deep into your villain’s psyche to reveal:

A haunting past or a pivotal mistake that shadows their every move 😌

A remnant of empathy or humanity that makes them tragically relatable

Subvert expectations:

Avoid the cliché "pure evil" stereotype by exploring the layers of regret, loss, or even doubtful remorse.

Show that they might be wrestling with an internal conflict over choices made in the name of a twisted sense of justice.

Use narrative techniques:

Experiment with fragmented internal monologues instead of well-structured soliloquies.

Incorporate flashbacks or unreliable narration to mirror the fragmented state of their troubled mind.

Infuse subtle moments of vulnerability:

Craft scenes where your villain, in solitude (maybe under a starlit sky 🌟), reflects on their regrets and fears.

Use these quiet moments to hint at the underlying emotional turmoil, avoiding over-dramatization.

Leverage relationships as catalysts:

Introduce secondary characters—like a long-lost friend or a mentor—who evoke memories of who they once were.

Let these interactions expose the conflict between the villain’s desire for power and the remnants of their former, more innocent self.

Remember:

The key to authentic internal conflict is subtlety. Let these emotions simmer beneath the surface, influencing every decision without overtly stating them.

Experiment relentlessly—let your villain’s inner struggle fuel the narrative and add depth to their character arc.

Let your villain be the dark heart of your story, pulsing with all the ambiguities of a lost soul caught between redemption and damnation. Happy writing, and keep weaving that intricate magic! 😊 - Rin T.

[kingofthewilderwest]

We need to start questioning the conflation of "maturity" with "increased stakes."

It's not to say higher stakes is always a bad choice. The first half of the How to Train Your Dragon book series has an endearingly whimsical, child-like feel. Hiccup's issues in the first half of book one are an obnoxious, cat-sized Toothless pooping in his helmet. The movie adaptation might have made the book and its counterpart distant cousins, but it was a thoughtful move to alter concepts to the appropriately theatrical: books and movies aren't the same medium. Hiccup riding alone on Toothless, exchanging fire blasts with a mountain-sized dragon, and losing his leg came off as well-done storytelling.

Hiccup staring at a prosthetic never happened in the book. He didn't lose his leg in his encounter with the Green Death. It was, as the creative powers behind the movie said, a result of the increased stakes. They didn't do this just to be more dramatic; they did it because it seemed that, based on how their narrative was going, this made sense. And this was a soft, quiet, shocking, breath-taking scene that instilled how good the movie handled its stakes. It gave us a reflective reaction to consequences that audiences might not have expected. This movie understood timing, pauses, quietness, narrative arc, poignance, reflection, emotion, love, and heart.

We know about the conflation of live action as "more mature" than animation. But a medium doesn't change maturity levels. We all know that's bogus, and many analyses have been given on that. Disney live actions add extraneous gunk, down to Gaston having a past relationship with war (so I've heard, from the people who actually watched the movie), and Disney giving us the sad scoop on why Belle's mom isn't around. Furthermore, lots of times, when I see the conversion of animation to live action, I notice creators feel a need to "raise the stakes" -- in line with the erroneous view of "giving maturity."

But "higher stakes" often means inserting action in place of mindful interaction. I feel today's Hollywood movies, in their treatment of "action," don't let movies pause and breathe anymore - ergo, they don't let us think. Isn't it more juvenile to actively avoid thought in favor of "hey look I made the building go boom"? There may be less "stakes" in introspection and mindful dialogue, but that's what gives it its maturity. That's how we went from Iron Man 1, with its grounded treatment of war and abuse, to the mindless high spectacle MCU is today.

Snappy one-liners or moments that clap at contemporary issues don't substitute for maturity. What can make a story mature is characters grappling with issues in a natural narrative through-line. A snappy one-liner is its own form of speedy spectacle.

We know about the conflation of "gore and sex" with "mature audiences." I believe they're right that graphic sex and gore is designed for adults. But that doesn't make it mature, and that doesn't make it the only way to target a medium for adults.

"Realisticness" isn't maturity. Per above regarding animation: realistic visuals are nothing. And if you think that putting more Debbie Downer material into your adaptation makes it more adult, you have to ask yourself why the themes that spoke to people's souls got muddled in its midst. We weren't mature enough to interact with the most subtle, nuanced, and impacting voice of the story. But hey! Look! There's more corpses, I guess!

It's not the visuals, it's not the events. It's not the "things." It's not the basic insertion of the external. Get past the superficial, get past the top layer of presentation. It's the mind. It's the ability to think. It's the ability to be still. It's the ability to be interested and attentive when something is slow or quotidian, because we can understand why that is important for narrative growth or arcs or themes or commentary on the human condition. It's the ability to know when and when not to include something. It's the ability to make resonant impact. It's the ability to be deep with your emotions or your themes. It's the ability to take what you have and grow it in a way by which we can derive something deeper.

Maturity is critical thought and well-conducted, appropriate responses to content of any kind.

As DeBlois tells Empire, the move to live-action brings a different emphasis to How To Train Your Dragon; a new heft, both physically and emotionally. “It’s so dialed-up in terms of stakes ��� having a fully credible, photo-real dragon stomping around trying to kill him,” the director says.

And maybe that DeBlois quote is taken out of context. Maybe there's more going on than that one sentence conveys. Maybe Empire is making their own erroneous assumptions. But "so dialed-up in terms of stakes," isn't, on its own, a good appeal. The animated movie already dialed things up - and knew when to include or not include something. A live-action that imitates the visuals of the animated movie exactly, as if no independent thought has been done to its unique adaptation, to the pros and cons of the medium, to what a independently-presented story needs and doesn't need... It has to make you wonder: how many conflations of "maturity" are going on?

How long are we going to keep making our own conflations?

[thiefcatmoth]

pac: what could you try in the occult arts?

general reading. pick a pile, listening to your intuition. if nothing resonates, leave this pac behind.

pile 1

how about trying to make dreamcatchers for your loved ones? or wind chimes? these instruments are relatively simple, but when made with good intentions, with magical power embedded, they bring many positive changes to the lives of those to whom they are given, from clearing thoughts to changing the atmosphere in the room. you have the power to bring these changes to others, and the process of creating these amulets will help you better reveal your creative abilities and gain generosity of energy.

pile 2

i suspect you've never tried this, but you could try smoke or steam divination. this is a rare form of divination, similar to water or mirror divination - you look at the figures the smoke shows you, and they tell you a story about the past, present and future. try lighting your favorite candle and blowing it out, watching the smoke sway, prepare the smudging ritual and look into the clouds. or even add your favorite essential oil to hot water and watch the rising steam speak to you. just remember to protect your respiratory system and your eyes, be careful.

pile 3

manifestation. moreover, you can turn not only to well known written forms, but also try vocal manifestation. first, listen to your voice, to every word you say, and try to endow them not only with meaning, but also with power. each of your words is important and weighty, remember this, and be confident in yourself and your desires. if you do not like the sound of your speaking voice, try using other sounds or also singing. the human voice is very transformative, and this will give you many opportunities to embody your will in sound.

pile 4

try working with the moon and making moon water. the moon helps to develop intuition, look deep into yourself and explore what can never be described in words. and moon water can help you on the path to knowing others and yourself. for many, moon water is a tool for clearing the mind and energy - and you can try using it by adding it to your bath to charge yourself with the energy of the moon, revealing your potential more fully.

pile 5

have you ever tried to create talismans? these are small special objects that can look completely different. they often help to overcome adversity, they protect, provide support. talismans are created with pure intentions and are given to those for whom they are intended - these are deeply individual objects that you yourself cover with the necessary symbols, use the necessary materials and choose the colors and textures.

pile 6

try cleansing rituals with earth or salt. you may have tried this before, but there is always a new twist on old. you can write down everything you want to get rid of and bury this text at a crossroads. you can create a witch's bottle for cleansing, using salt, stones and even bones that suit your intentions. and if you don't have access to such objects but want to cleanse your own body, soul and mind, get out into nature, touch the Earth with your hands and ask it to ease your burdens.

thanks for the reading!

dividers by @strangergraphics-archive, all images are not mine

[cheyisagirlkisser]

Fading with the Leaves: 1/2

‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ ‎ ‎Ellie Williams x Fem! Reader‎ ‎ ₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

݁ ˖ ◜WARNING: Sensitive content. Mentions of grief, PTSD, violence, etc.

݁ ˖ ◜Word count: 4k

݁ ˖ ◜Description: After Ellie loses Joel, everything changes. Her touch fades from your body, replaced with a bitter shell of who once loved you. There is no promise that she will ever return, and you have to learn to give up, though that's easier said than done. PART TWO OUT CLICK HERE

You followed her everywhere she went like blood trailing behind a body, and somehow also like a blessing that's inevitable to humanity, a much needed saving.

You would someday save her.

Ellie constantly felt the flatbacks hit. All of the moments she once took for granted with Joel and now all of those memories felt as if they were for nothing; she was once factually content with her life. The loss and the trauma that she had faced before Joel came into her life became nothing but a scab when she moved to Jackson.

From top to bottom, Ellie was a smart girl. She knew how to kill, how to survive, and how to get herself out of dangerous situations in creative ways. She was raised into violence and grew into a complicated adult. One thing they don't tell you about living in a hellish world like hers is that the flustered, awkward feelings that arise from a sweet face aren't something any knife or round of ammo can prevent.

You were always in her vicinity and at first, she felt as if she were crazy. This beautiful, sweet girl wanted to talk to her? She just couldn't believe it. As time went on, you'd naturally grow on her like the prettiest species of vines that she didn't think to ignore, unlike the verdure that sprouted on the abandoned bricks of the old world.

The blush in your cheeks, those soft smiles passed around town like your own personal calling card, and the scent of cheap strawberry lotion following you like a cloud only haunted her mind. She felt all of this before Joe's death happened. Unfortunately, she knew how much she loved you much before that, and it would be like an everlasting fear that even if she pushed you to the other side of the world, the salty taste of your skin would be engraved into her mind and it made her sick to her stomach in a way that made bile sound appetizing.

Two happy years of having you, or so she thought.

You had been dating for two long years, and it wasn't like some perfect relationship anyone could say was flawless. Ellie only found that to make you more lovely to her poor heart. She couldn't comprehend how someone could have flaws and her own body indulge in those like she was ravaged from thirst and needed you in every way, shape, and form. She needed your sensitivity, your lack of common sense in pressuring situations, and your clinginess. And somehow, your response to the behavior only put her obsession into a magnifying glass.

Ellie's constant flashbacks will never just be of Joel, as bad as those are. No, it's a mix of yearning and grief.

She'll remember the way your lips parted late into the night when she'd place her warm fingertip to your bottom lip, pressing down and sliding the flesh against your tongue in a way that made her belly clench with an undeniable need to take every bit of your soul away and keep it for herself. Even now, mentally separated from you in her current state of life, she would never get tired of you. You were far too vast, like an ocean and she could not bear to be handed a life jacket.

Being so in love can be such a beautiful blessing. Before Joel, she often returned home from her hunting trips to your presence and while days were undeniably tough, you were always a soothing balm that coated her soul twice-over.

Being in love can also make you want to tear apart the world brick by brick, branch by branch.

Ellie couldn't afford to love after Joel died. She swore it off. There was no immediate shut-down in which she broke up with you and isolated herself. It was more like a slow withdrawal from the life she once felt even an ounce of comfort from. She stopped eating your home-made meals and opted to a beer to tide her. Slowly, it became the stronger liquids. Nights that used to be spent well-rested curled up against you turned into late-night hunting trips that she came back from and collapsed onto the cold couch, regardless of you waiting for her in bed.

Ellie knew her behavior was unfair, and you deserved the fucking world, if not a loving partner. But she couldn't be that for you. You were just so beautiful and sweet, she hated imagining you in place of Joel or beside him, a grave complete with fast-fading flowers and that name she loved to say engraved into the stone. Imagining you bitten was even worse. She wanted to keep you all to herself, lock you inside the home just to know you'll always live. But when she was paranoid with thoughts of illness. There was no key to unlocking the doors of death as it hit all mortals. There was only acceptance, and that was a feeling unplaced in her life after such wretched, unfair acts had caused her to lose the one person who willingly raised her into a semi-okay human being.

There was no proper apology she could give you for the snappy words. There was no hug that followed, and no softness in her gaze when her feelings would implode onto you, coating your sensitive feelings with her own pain; Ellie began to hate herself, and yet the cycle was never going to end, it seemed.

-

You always loved Ellie with every ounce of heart you had, which was a lot. You weren't the angel she made you out to be. You only wanted to feel loved when you took a chance into giving her your heart.

But by God, you fell face-first into the heap of mess named Ellie.

She haunted you just as you did her; her auburn locks that so messily beautiful, even the inevitable loose strands were like pieces of perfection carved into one singular person. Her face was molded by emotions you always struggled to read and yet fantasized about her informing you of, and her skin was tainted with freckles that ate away at the apples of her cheeks. By any means was she flawless, either. Enough said of the endless list that made you fall for her so strongly.

Living with her was once a treasure you thought was too good to be true, like some conditions came with it. It wasn't until after everything happened that the reality of the harsh world hit you and refused to make Ellie see how much you wanted to be there for her.

Most people would believe comforting someone in a time of loss would be the right thing to do. You felt this natural instinct watching the light fade from Ellie's face the day after Joel's soul left the Earth. You'd never wanted to save her so badly from her own obsession with intense loss, yet she didn't even give you the chance to. Stuck was the love that you wanted to feel her release onto you, like a key voluntarily jammed in a lock. You watched her destructive behaviors and your tears were nightly shed. You wanted to feel her love again, and to be reminded that she still had those obsessive needs entailing your presence, but the reassurance never came. The nights got longer and the bed, cold.

-

The cold winter breeze blew over the Wyoming farm. Grass was mainly dead, frigid flakes of snow beginning to coat the ground. The sheep were all cozy in the barn that you herded them into. These past few months, you had a habit of doing most of the work around the farm and the house. It was a necessary habit, because Ellie wasn't in any condition to do the work; she was either drunk, asleep, silent, or out hunting. However, even the contributions made in the form of game were lacking. Most days, it was small rabbits or squirrels. You could tell she was beating herself up over that too, behind the lack-luster eyes.

Your hands reached over for the pie dough, weaving through threads of the material. Your hands always seemed to twitch slightly these days, but it was usually cold in the house, making for a reasonable explanation. More than anything, you wanted to pretend all was well.

Baking was always something you loved to do when things got tough. Before you even knew Ellie, you'd spend your time frosting cupcakes or shoveling a tray of brownie batter into the oven. Now, you were just reminded of how many times Ellie had come into the kitchen to steal one of your creations and kiss your cheek. You longed for the way it was so easy with her at one point in your lives.

Still, you placed the pie into the oven and waited. You waited with the silence, pacing around restlessly. Ellie was in the bedroom, probably buried under the blankets, but not asleep. You wanted to give her something to come out for.

30 minutes later, the timer went off. No sign of Ellie. You sighed and with mitts, took the apple lie out. It had the scent of cinnamon tainting it, an aroma that used to be Ellie's favorite. Still, you didn't want to give up. You carefully placed the pie onto the counter and slowly headed for the bedroom, opening the door as quietly as possible.

"Ellie?" You called out, making sure to be gentle with your tone. Anything could set her off, and even a frown was something you wanted to avoid.

Ellie muttered out a soft respond, mostly incomprehensible.

You sighed and leaned against the doorframe. "I made your favorite pie. You want a slice?"

"Don't feel like getting up," she mumbled.

You frowned slightly at that, but something in you wanted to still push. Gently push. "You can have a slice in bed, I'll bring you-"

You were cut off.

"Just go, okay? I don't want the damn pie."

Followed by a soft sigh from underneath the blankets, and a bit of shuffling.

"I'm sorry..just go, please. Put the leftovers in the fridge or whatever."

Your heart sank a bit, and you hated getting snapped at. Still, you loved her. Sometimes, you endured some fucked up things for love.

You closed the door behind you.

-

Winter season was one of your least favorites of the seasonal climates. Summer was much nicer, you thought. Beautiful rays of sunshine that painted the grass with greenery. Hours spent in the creek a mile from the farmhouse turned into your eyes flickering down into the icy surface, thoughts muddled with Ellie. You hoped she would break soon.

Today, you woke up and went on with your usual morning routine. You made breakfast, and you made sure to leave leftovers in the fridge for Ellie, even though she had already left for another hunt, without a word, of course. You spent the first quarter of the day doing chores and enduring the cold to take care of the livestock. Once done, you felt restless. You wanted to do something, but you didn't know what. Life felt so boring these days, and you wanted to break away from the routine you and Ellie found yourselves in. So you decided to do something special in hopes she'd appreciate you.

-

When Ellie came home from her hunting trip, she opened the door and was floored.

The kitchen table had centralized candles, warm soft glow emitting and adding light to the rather dim room. It was a heat that used to exist between the two of you and lingered like a smoke filling a car, a car Ellie intended to escape from. There was a new cloth laid out, and on top of it were two glasses of red wine and two plates of spaghetti, truly one of Ellie's favorite meals, or was one of her favorites. However, she lastly noticed you standing beside it all with a nervous but hopeful upturn in your lips.

You looked fucking gorgeous.

Ellie always admired your style, even back in Jackson. It was clear that you sometimes wandered off during patrol in search of some pieces to bring back to your closet. She used to find it extremely endearing, teasing you over some claw clip in your hair or a new skirt you found in an abandoned home's master bedroom.

Now, standing in front of her, your hair was up and loose strands fell like a stream from a waterfall, all chaotic and natural but there was much intent behind it. Your lips were an exaggerated rosy pink, and they were slight parted like two delicate, plush petals. They looked like the petals of a pretty tulip picked straight from a meadow, only being the most perfect flower of all. If she had seen you months ago, she would've had the cosmetic substance coating your lips smudged over your pretty face. Now, she could only brush past it as her eyes flickered down to the satin dress hugging your body in ways she'd only seen when you were naked.

"I'm not doing this with you," She stated, trying to sound monotonous but ultimately failing, "I can't do this tonight."

"Ellie, sit down. Just eat with me, please." You gestured to the chairs, vulnerability still written all over your pretty face and signed on your trembling lips.

"I'm not hungry."

"You know that's not true. You skipped breakfast this morning and probably lunch." You knew you were pushing it, but you were at your limit with the way things were going. You knew she was struggling, that no dinner could heal her, but you still wanted to at least make a start.

That's when she doubled down.

"Because I'm not fucking hungry. I'm going to watch tv now." She walked right past the table and when you reached out to grab her, your grip a bit too clingy. She turned around, and the irritation that used to be subtle boiled over.

It used to be subtle, at least. There were always recent moments in which her agitated moods doubled into more, something that bordered the anger that she contained towards Joel's killers. Now, she can't help it; it leaks out through her voice, the tone that you've now grown to hate. You wonder how much you can stand, but she'll be sure to show you.

Her hands gripped at the kitchen table, pushing it away and sending the glasses of wine to be shattered into glass shards spread all over the tiled floor; a quite accurate representation of what seemed to be happening inside of you at the moment. The plates hit the ground as well, and there was a mess that joined the red liquid staining the floor you mopped hours ago.

Everything was a fucking mess.

You stared at her in silence. Ellie stared back, but not meeting your eyes. She wasn't making a move to leave you alone in the kitchen, though, as if she wanted to see your reaction. She wanted to see if you'd given up on her so she wouldn't have to worry about you leaving her like Joel did.

"Why'd you do that?" You spoke, and you sounded so hurt, so done. It sent a pain through Ellie's chest; she had never witnessed such hopelessness from you.

Always so sweet and carefree, as if you were oblivious to the world around you, to all of the death and violence that followed human kind. Ellie used to need that behavior from you because you would provide her with a beacon of light that she wasn't able to be herself. However, now, that beacon felt ever-blinding. She felt the need to drop the lantern that was your hope onto the floor, even if it shattered her in the process.

Silence followed.

You didn't question her again. You simply grabbed a kitchen towel, knees falling to the floor as you began to rub at the spilled wine. It wasn't like how you had cleaned earlier, not like it was something you focused on to forget Ellie's negligence. Now, it was like you were on the midst of reaching your lowest point in life. Fuck, now that made Ellie feel really, really guilty.

Tears were patching up your vision, making it hard to see. Streams of salty moisture was now visible on your cheeks, hands shaking as you frantically tried to gather up pieces of glass without a thought to what it'd feel like to hurt yourself with a shard brushing up against your skin.

Ellie tried to reason that she should scurry off upstairs to leave you alone without a second thought, but her mouth was speaking before she could process what she was saying.

"I know it's not your fault. It's all mine." She sounded, for the first time, like she cared.

You gazed up at her through tear-clouded eyes. You should've probably kicked her out for the night, told her to go back to Jackson and crash on Jesse's couch. Something deep within you, something foolish and perhaps even blind, stopped you.

"Just..head to bed, okay? Go to bed, and I'll get this all cleaned up." You mumbled quietly, and the lack of hope or effort to appease her didn't go unnoticed by Ellie. She could tell you were about to really be done with her.

This would be the first night she would be sleeping in your shared bed. She probably would've protested, but all the fight contained within her to push you away was released. Ellie only nodded and her footsteps faded as she left the kitchen.

Cleaning vigorously only helped distract you from the racing in your chest just a bit.

You used to believe that Ellie was confidently obsessed with you. Her heart used to seem so yearning for you and her hands, those needy hands would always seek you out. Now, you felt as one-sided as this had started. Nothing could completely wipe away the pain of feeling unwanted, no amount of scrubbing away the wine or sweeping up glass. Nothing could ever be the same, you were starting to believe.

The kitchen floor was shiny now, but you felt like a train-wreck inside. You longed for life to feel easier, even with the struggles you were forced to endure. It's much harder to face those alone, and it's especially hard when the person you're losing is slipping away on their own and not by the grim reaper's grasp. Your hands grasped at the table for support as you lifted yourself up off of the ground after scrubbing away the mess completely, and you slowly entered the bedroom.

Ellie wasn't buried underneath the blankets. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, and you could tell she was waiting for you to be done cleaning. You felt uneasy in your stomach, and all you wanted was for her to finally speak. But she was silent until the words that made your face pale left her chapped lips.

"I have to leave."

"...what?" You wanted to put up a fight. You wished you had it in you to scream and yell at her, to beg and plead for her to stay, but she'd completely drained your once rose-tinted cheeks of power. She held a grasp over you and intended to squeeze.

She finally looked at you. "I have to kill them, and then maybe I can come back to you and be who you need me to be."

She was truly demented now, you thought to yourself. Your fingers were twitching, fidgeting with the end of your sleeve. She had the audacity to speak again.

"I can get revenge and maybe then, I can-"

"Just go. I'm done pretending like I want this. I feel like I'm living with a damn ghost, Ellie." You couldn't take it anymore: the one-sided fights, the one-sided feelings, the constant distance and sleepless nights. At this point, you weren't sure if you wanted her to return. She looked surprised that you had agreed so easily, though, and it left her feeling even worse because Ellie could tell that you just simply gave up.

"Alright, then. I promise I'll be back. I promise I still love you. I'm so sorry." She stood up slowly and her hands cupped your face. You made no move to lean into her touch or to push her away, only silently appreciate her warmth, even though your mind was telling you she probably wouldn't be coming back.

She leaned in, her warm breath on your cheek, and pressed two plush lips to it. You let out a breath of your own and closed your eyes. Footsteps rang in your head louder than her boots realistically were.

When your eyes opened, she was gone.

_

Spring followed suit of the bitter winter.

The trees that were once devoid of life sprouted new potential, and the creek stream flowed ever-the-same. Little white flowers with their pure petals sprouted in your yard, and the sheep seemed to be more content with the grassy utopia grown throughout the yard now that the cold was behind it.

Overall, the atmosphere was lighter and swept clean of a hopeless, frigid ache. It had been approximately four months since Ellie left.

The first and second month was the hardest. You wondered how someone could just leave the person they claim to love the hardest in their life. You thought that the pain would be never-ending, but you were always changing, just like the seasons. Just not in chronological order, only through cycles that couldn't end.

Even after four months, sometimes you thought of her. You wondered if she was gone from the Earth, her body left to be feasted upon by infected or if she was on some dirty floor with a bullet in her head. You wouldn't be surprised; the girl had too much bravado, and she'd be sure to get herself killed that way. She couldn't suck it up, even to the one behind the gun. Still, the ache in your chest was lightening.

You felt guilty to think that you were moving on. She could actually come back, and she'd be needing you more than anything. She could walk through that wooden door at any minute and grovel over the months she hurt you.

You were starting to wonder if you could bear to take her back. The chores were easier than ever, though, now that you didn't feel the tense grief looming in the air. The house was empty, and you were completely alone, and somehow not as lonely as you could imagine.

However, late at night, you would dwell on what Ellie would do if she were here, and if the grief she carried would've been passed like it should've been. You could somehow feel the way her breath would tickle your neck and she'd trace her chapped but soft lips over your skin like she was tending to more than just some girl. Like you were her goddess, and that was how things once were. You could still smell her everywhere in your bed, the scent of sweat mixed in with Earth. It always lingered and the memories of her ghost touches seemed to hit you like a flash bang.

Those nights grew less and less frequent, however.

_

Summer nights were spent in the old house you inhabited in Jackson.

The farmhouse was much too spacious for one person, so after much consideration, you returned to the settlement.

You were welcomed with warm, open arms. You desperately missed your friend, Dina, and how she matched your spirits. You spent the summer going to parties and bonfires, staying over at Dina's house and smoking the occasional weed. Your once quiet lifestyle turned into what it once was, maybe even better. Nights became filled with the sound of your crackled laughter, and Dina sporting up some joke that Jesse would roll his eyes at watching you topple over, clutching at your stomach as if it were the peak of comedy.

Your house felt warm and filled with new emotions; it was like the once pale, neutral undertones were painted over with a layer of bright, fresh paint. Still, the cracks in the walls of your soul would remain at times.

Always did the freckled face, the auburn tufts of hair, and the wide eyes follow you, though. After a while, it all seemed to fade away, like a bath bomb in water. You pulled the drain out and you believed that you closed the chapter on Ellie's presence in your life.

It was then, on a late July day, that she returned.

[ohdeerfully]

hi! I have a request, I've never really done this before but I'll give it a shot. so my request is that Charlie is tasked by heaven to watch over a very special human soul via a device that is like a full 360 VR kind of setup and this soul just so happens to be Alastor's immortal wife (he didn't know she was) whom he thought had died with him during a bad event and wound up in heaven but she didn't and She stayed the same since the 1930s like her looks stayed the same and her love for Alastor stayed too she never once tried to move on even when her new friends in this time tried to get her a guy but she just refused still wearing the wedding ring her gave her

I hope it's not too much to ask it can be changed to whatever you see if you have full creative control over it!

thank you for your brain anon

theres a couple awkward POV shifts in the story and im super duper sorry about that D: im not good at those

An Eternity

alastor x reader (angst) TW: reader is female, reader gets a lil drunk and drives but shes fine(i do not condone this pls dont drink and drive im so serious), yearning goes ouchie ):

join my discord!

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Alastor rarely, if ever, talked about his time alive. He saw it pointless; a waste of time and energy. How could it benefit him if somebody else knew his history? If anything, it would only open up weak points. And, being an Overlord, he couldn’t afford that.

The only hint of his past was a band on his finger that he never took off. Even after decades in Hell, nobody saw him without it.

People often asked, of course, because how in the Hell did the Radio Demon get hitched? Even in life, he was probably just as unusual and off putting. These questions were always met with a dismissive wave and a laugh, but anybody who knew him—which wasn’t many, truly—would recognize the strain in his voice as he brushed them off. Whatever the story was seemed to only grow more painful with time.

He was deep in thought, humming absently as he trailed through the hotel. He ended up meandering by Charlie’s room, which was cracked open. He took this as an invitation to let himself in, cheerfully grinning as he saw the girl sitting on the edge of her bed looking extremely confused.

“Hello, dear!” He announced himself, standing up straight and fixing his bowtie with one hand. “What does this afternoon have in store for the Princess of Hell?”

“Heyy, Al,” Charlie responded, still frowning at the contraption in her hand. It was a rather bulky thing; an unappealing piece of new technology, Alastor decided. Still, he loomed from behind Charlie with a curious bend in his neck. Her shoulders were stiff, and he couldn’t tell if it was from frustration with the thing in her hand or discomfort at him watching her. 

“What is that peculiar thing?” He finally asked, since Charlie made no attempt at explanation. She seemed too focused to really pay him any mind.

“Something Heaven gave me to watch some curious soul they can’t control,” She murmured, fiddling with a couple buttons and knobs. “They’ve got me doing some ridiculous things. I mean, some human soul shouldn’t even concern me. But, they promise these favors will help with my hotel.”

Alastor hummed in response. He of all demons would recognize a manipulation tactic when he saw one—convincing a powerful demon princess to do your chores and promising to help her desperate project in return seemed like something the angels would do. He didn’t care one way or another, as long as Charlie’s naivete didn’t get in the way of his own goals.

He took a few steps back when Charlie stood, seemingly finished with setting up the box. He grinned, amused, when she pulled it over her head. It wasn’t the most flattering thing, and pretty bulky on her face. She looked ridiculous, honestly.

“Modern technology,” He sighed dramatically, leaning down onto his cane as he continued to observe her. “Only getting uglier.”

Charlie didn’t respond to his comment, looking around at what Alastor saw as nothing. She played around with the settings again, and adjusted the straps on her head again, before looking around again. She let out a successful sounding “hell yes” before pulling a remote of sorts from her pocket. She pushed on a joystick.

“What are you doing?” Alastor asked plainly, the building curiosity finally becoming too much. “Why do you have a box on your head?”

“It’s like…” She began to explain, trying to think of how to make sense of it to him. “Like… imagine you were looking through the eyes of somebody else, but still standing in the same spot..?” Her voice tilted at the end, unsure of her explanation.

Yeah, no, Alastor had no clue. But he dismissed it as unnecessary, as he often did with any technology he couldn’t understand.

“I’m seeing… Earth, I guess,” Charlie explained more. “Following around this girl.”

Alastor was only partially listening, humming quietly to himself as he just observed. He wondered if he should just leave—nothing interesting was happening. He was curious to see what antics Heaven was pushing on the Princess of Hell, though.

“Wanna try?” Charlie offered, lifting the headset up away from her eyes. Alastor immediately scrunched his nose up and narrowed his eyes.

“And look as ridiculous as you? Hah! No thank you,” He sat down on a chair near the wall, leaning against the back of it. He threw one leg up over the other. Charlie shrugged in response, and pulled the contraption back down.

Alastor sat for a while, absently thinking about what he wanted to do later as he waited for something to happen.

“Oh! Hold on,” Charlie suddenly said, causing Alastor’s ears to straighten to attention as she reached up and pressed a button. A holographic projection appeared out of nowhere, manifesting through some strange magic. “Forgot I could do that. This is what I’m seeing in here.” 

Alastor stood and walked closer, leaning forward on his cane as he studied the projection. It seemed like some kind of bar. He mused at how different modern bars looked from the speakeasies he would frequent during his own life.

“What heavenly task are you doing in a bar?” He joked, trying to find something interesting in the projection. It just seemed like generic bar business. Loud, flirtatious women and boisterous, over confident men. That, at least, was the same from his day.

“Like I said earlier,” Charlie explained, looking around the room. The projection seemed to follow her movement, and Alastor recognized that he was basically seeing through her eyes. How curious. “There’s some… soul they lost control of. And they want me to report to them about her.”

Alastor was very curious to see what kind of soul broke from control of literal heaven. He watched rather intently, leaned forward against his cane to watch the projection.

Charlie turned another knob, and the sound of tacky pop music and loud chatter began to emanate from the bar scene. Alastor wasn’t a fan of newer music, but he was often forced to listen anyway in the hotel lobby.

“Is it possible to turn down that dreadful noise?” He complained to her, announcing his dissatisfaction.

“No. I need to be able to hear what the woman is saying,” Charlie answered stubbornly. Alastor’s microphone of a cane began to obnoxiously play a song of his choice for a moment in retaliation, but died down after a few moments. After all, Charlie ignored his attempt at aggravation, so there was no point in keeping it up.

Charlie looked around the bar, searching. Finally, her gaze settled on a fancier booth with half drawn curtains. From her angle, she could only see a woman. She looked frustrated.

“---get out of your shell! It’s about time you start talking to some guys for once,” Charlie caught the tail end of the woman’s statement. She was gesturing wildly around, exasperation evident in the jagged movements. “I’m sick of watching you pine for somebody who’s been gone for ages.”

★

“Ten years isn’t ages, Mechiele,” You drew your finger against the table, making shapes with the rim of water that the condensation from your glass left. Nearly a hundred years, more like, You commented to yourself. You never told anybody that you were an immortal being. Nobody believed you when you did, anyway.

You sat your cheek against the palm of your hand and lifted your gaze to your friend, who looked at you with a sharp frown. You shot her a weak smile. 

“Can you just drop it?” You asked, nearly pleading. You didn’t want to cry tonight, being a little tipsy—you were an emotional drunk. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself blabbering about a dead husband.

“Come on,” Mechiele said impatiently, pushing your pleas aside. “There’s so many hot guys in here, I bet one would just love to take a piece of work like you home and-”

“Mechiele.” You hoped your tone was enough to shut her up.

You should’ve known better, honestly. Mechiele was already abrasive when she was sober, but with the amount of drinks she’s had tonight…

“No, no, no! You bum! Get your ass up right now and get out there! And take that ring off while you’re at it!”

Mechiele quickly lunged at you, a much too playful look in her eye considering how pissed you were right now. You yanked your arm away from her grasp, cupping your hand protectively with the other, shielding the golden band on your finger from her.

“Fucking drop it!” You snapped at her, standing from your seat. “I’m going home. You’re too drunk. I’ll drive.”

“You’re so fucking lame,” Mechiele droned, falling back into her seat. She wouldn’t budge when you urged her to stand and come with you. “He’s fuckin’ dead! Get a new man, already! Alastor’s not-”

Mechiele stopped abruptly when you smacked her. It wasn’t an incredibly hard smack or anything, barely enough to leave a red bloom on her cheek, but it was enough. She looked at you through narrowed eyes. You returned the same expression.

You left the booth and stormed off, cursing under your breath about it all. About Mechiele, about this stupid bar, about the tipsy feeling in your head, about Alastor—

You folded your arms together as you briskly walked to your car, yelling in frustration at your heels and ripping them off your feet. The ground was a little wet and cold, but you didn’t care. After making it to your car, you threw yourself in an switched it on.

You thought for a few moments. You were lightheaded after a few drinks, but you really didn’t want to wait for a taxi. You’d probably be fine, yeah? Sure. Against your better judgment, you began to drive.

It was a long drive, but it gave you some time to think.

You missed him. You pined for him. Nearly every night was agony, missing the presence of the only man you’ve ever fallen in love with.

You cursed whatever higher power there was for making you this way—immortal. How cruel it was, to make you live forever to suffer this longing. You didn’t even notice when you ended up in your room, but you let yourself fall face first onto your bed, curling up into a ball.

Even more, you cursed yourself for ever falling in love. You should’ve known it would only lead to an endless torture of heartbreak. You would never love anybody the same; although, you don’t think you’d want to, even if you could.

You were born to suffer. To spend an eternity in life without him.

★

Charlie continued to watch in shock for a few moments, her mouth dropped at the mention of the Radio Demon’s name. The previously hidden woman stepped from the bar, a furious look in her eyes as she stormed away. Mechiele was left with stubbornly folded arms and an empty glass of alcohol.

“Heyyy, uh, Al, how common is your name..? Do you know…” Charlie asked a bit awkwardly. She got no response. She lifted the headset, and realized he was gone. Even still, there seemed to be a lingering feeling of intense static, and the air somehow felt a bit heavier than before.

★

This had to be some cruel, sick joke, right? Heaven had to be toying with him, finally finding a way to torture his soul. His wife—she was dead. It had been nearly a hundred years since he died, and even if she had lived till she was old—

Alastor was pacing his room, ears pinned and eyes wide in frantic thought. Oh, how he yearned for her. He had managed for so long to push the memory of her away, to lock up his loss in a tight cage as he climbed the ranks of hell; it had all come rushing, barreling, torrenting back when he had seen her—or, no, somebody that looked like her—step out of those curtains. It was only a coincidence that that woman looked like his wife, and only a coincidence that she had a dead husband that shared his name.

His wife was in heaven, no doubt; which was where she belonged, of course, but Alastor had spent the last decade pining for somebody who he could never see again. If given the choice, Alastor wasn’t so sure himself if he was kind enough as to not tear her soul from Heaven and down to Hell by his side. Alternatively, even if Charlie’s idea of redemption were to work, Alastor was truly irredeemable. It was all wistful thinking, anyway.

Alastor’s claws dug into the curtains of his window, staring out into the streets of Hell in an attempt to concentrate on one steady stream of thought.

When billions of people touch the Earth, it’s only natural that coincidences like this rise. Right? He tried desperately to convince himself of different possibilities. It just made no sense.

A knocking at his door made Alastor’s grin curl in deadly malice. He really wasn’t in the mood.

He paced to his door, opened it just enough to fit his body in the frame, and glared down at Charlie. She was wringing her hands together nervously, and only seemed to grow more timid as the heavy, almost palpable ambience of his radio static filled the hallway she stood in.

“I’m busy,” Alastor said bluntly. His lips were curled in a sneer.

“I can tell,” Charlie responded. "I know you don't like talking about yourself-" She began to ramble on about him talking to her about his feelings and whatnot, but Alastor didn’t listen as he shut the door again.

Though, the interruption did give his mind a chance to slow. He sat on a chair in the corner of his room, and opted to fiddle with the radio on the drawer next to him. He tuned it—or, more just magically infused it—to play some jazz to try to keep his head level.

It would take some time to rebuild the dam that held back the memories of his wife. Even just the mere thought of her made him feel weak, and he hated it. The only soul he was capable of falling in love with—gone, forever.

Alastor never took the whole “eternity of damnation” thing seriously, considering the power he held and how comfortable he really was in Hell. However, when he remembered her—

Hell truly was torture. And he was cursed to spend his eternity in death without her.

[hoseoksluna]

SMOKE, i. | myg

pairing: idol!yoongi x smoke!oc (ft. bangtan)

genre: angst

word count: 6.8k

summary: everything that begins also ends.

pinterest board: smoke / taglist: join

warnings: suicide ideation, yoongi has deep feelings that he hasn't felt in a long time, sexual innuendos, yoongi has brief dirty thoughts, alcohol consumption, talks of alcohol, social anxiety and feelings of anxiety in general, jungkook has mint hair, covid and the pandemic, talking to a dead loved one, jealousy, envy, anger, crying, yoongi's bad shoulder.

note: welcome to the brand new yoongi series! i can't believe this baby is alive and ready for you to read. i struggled with this a lot, since it's written in a way i've never tried before. yoongi's pov, first person—like what? i thought this chapter was pretty shitty as i didn't feel comfortable writing in this style, but i pushed through, felt like it was meant to be—which is why i need tons of your validation. i was also kinda sad today, so please send your love. :( fyi, jungkook may be a huge part of the beginning of this story, but this is not steam pt 2. jungkook won't be present as much later on. no polyamory here. *spoiler* he just brought oc to yoongi and then he will lovingly go away, dw. :) enjoy this first chapter, i can't wait for many more! kisses.

side note: happy bday to us! mwah.

It was a bang, what happened in our group. 

A bomb that blew off in Jungkookie’s trembling hands when he shared the news. A decision that wasn’t really collectively discussed, not even privately with Namjoon—but an information that erupted among us as we sat in the lounge room of the venue, refreshing ourselves with snacks and drinks after the tough soundcheck we had. I had a bottle of Hennessy in my hands myself, about to pour myself some liquid courage in order to chase away the bitter ire I had swirling in my veins, but hearing his words made me forget about the nectar right away. 

He was bringing along a female friend for the tour. 

The ire turned sour in my bloodstream. 

He must’ve lost his mind. 

And what’s worse, I was the only one who looked at him as if he were a lunatic. The members squealed and hollered, clapping their hands, shouting different variations of words of, “Jungkookie got a girlfriend!” that made him blush so profusely that he wasn’t able to reciprocate any of our eye contact. 

Especially not mine. 

I was fuming, taking breaths that hurt my lungs. The bottle of liquid courage damn nearly broke, but I didn’t feel a thing. How could I—when amidst the ruckus and the soft smiles of our staff my feelings parted and melted into a crossroad that I began to stand in the middle of. 

One way led to selfishness, the other to the very polar opposite of it. 

Jungkook didn’t deal with the pandemic well. His skin was invariably lined with a certain sensitivity towards forlornness and when the mandate forced upon him a pressure of being abandoned—by us and by his long time flirt that was the driving force behind his creativity, besides Army themselves—he didn’t take it well. Crawled inside himself, even deeper within when our management canceled our Map of the Soul tour and we had to stay bricked up inside our homes for a full year. 

He was crestfallen and despondent, a decaying human. No girlfriend, no Army. No band members to slap his back, cook him food and distract his mind from the loneliness. 

Except for me. 

I was the one who made time for him. Who visited him, despite our management’s strong disliking for it. I went around them and did it without anyone’s knowledge but Jungkook’s. With a mask and health in perfect condition that I took care of more for him than for anyone else. Our relationship blossomed to highs that overgrew the bricked walls of our mandatory, artificial castle. A peach honeysuckle vine that we watched as much as we could while I wrote poems to him in my heart to alleviate his ache. It was spring and one, singular  hummingbird would fly in to listen to my words while inhaling the sweetened perfume of those pale orange flowers or the fragrance of the natural honey I would buy him and pour over the pancakes I would make for him. A comfort food, a symbol of our secret meetings. A butterfly would sit on the small creature’s back, just to look over its wings and be a witness to a mind’s mending, an afternoon’s tea mixed with dark liquor that would always fade to noraebang. 

The key to Jungkook’s heart. 

I don’t know how the little fella found us, but I wish his wings would sense us here. There’s no windows for him to look out of, but the craving in me for it to fly in and save the day, remind Jungkook who’s been here for him this whole time, blossoms in me just like those peach flowers. 

The castle has collapsed a tiny bit, but the honeysuckle remains untouched. 

Or at least I hope so. 

The other, non-selfish way is simple. Our work had been put off for so long and now that we’re able to pick it back up—in a way that isn’t as satisfactory as I’d want it to be, of course, for the only faces we’ll be seeing beyond the stage are the ones of camera lenses, not the ones belonging to our beautiful Army—there’s a distraction, an external person who could never understand the gravity of that pain we all went through. 

This was supposed to be a precious time shared between us. Another mending of some sort—as our job is the chambers of our hearts. 

And now as I look at her, I feel her playing with those strings of my heart like a harp. And I have that terrible feeling that she will open the doors to each chamber and ruin everything we’ve worked so hard for. 

In spite of the fact that she didn’t do anything wrong. It’s a gut feeling that consumes me and I can’t do a thing about it, not even admit that it gives me the tiniest hint of a thrill that I’ve been craving for so long. 

Jungkook wasn’t the only one affected by the loneliness that came with the mandate. I gave my all to him and always walked out of his door empty—with no one to refill me. 

Performing again was supposed to do the job, but it seems as though she’s come in to hijack it.

Announcement, the ruffling of his hair and multitudes of teasing aside, we had an hour and half left until the beginning of our first show in Seoul. Jungkook left us, with cheeks as darkened as poppies in the summer, with a staff member and our bodyguard to pick her up at a designated meeting spot nearby. He hadn’t eaten all day—not before our dismal soundcheck and certainly not during our hair and makeup session. A ribbon of worry curled tightly in my gut that unfurled once he filled his plate with hotdogs after introducing her to us.

No shaking of hands, only Jungkook’s hand pointing at each member while his mouth gave life to their names. And she didn’t nod her head, not even once, as she moved to greet and smile at every face, which caused me to think that she either already knew of us, either due to our popularity or due to Jungkook’s stories—or both. 

But when it was my turn, her smile faltered.

I didn’t see much of her face, for she wore a black mask. And the only part of her features I was able to see spoke to me in a foreign language I was too pissed off to decipher.

Feline eyes. 

Round and wispy, so terribly cat-like that it cut through my heartstrings she played with and then abandoned. She held my gaze so unfathomably deeply and it wasn’t until she whisked her eyes away that I realized she, irrevocably, clutched time in her hands. It had stopped during that brief moment and resumed as if nothing happened. 

It unnerved me. 

As did my strange feelings as I took in the personality of her outer form. 

She wore a long silky dress, as black as her energy and her hair nearly akin to the length of that garment. Its hem brushed against her ankles with every movement she made and her feet were shod in a pair of heels that would puncture my heart if she so much as wished so. Over her shoulder hung a matching, leather purse and I noticed something that bruised, most peculiarly, my flesh. 

The clasp of her chain strap had a chubby Grookey Pokémon caged as a keychain. 

I found it as adorable as absolutely dangerous. Still do as my eyes can’t help but to watch it twirl. 

She’s a dangerous black cat, with her claws tucked in. And the entire night coils in her eyes, dressing her in innocence and a simultaneous seductiveness that make my lungs swell. 

A quintessence of beauty, she is.

After the introduction is over, Jungkook pulls out a chair for her beside him, sitting down and not wasting a second as he stuffs his mouth full with one of the hotdogs. The monkey bounces with her movement and it’s only now that my brain puts two and two together. The monster almost matches the minty tinge of Jungkook’s dyed hair with its plump, green body. 

None of them know that I match him, too. 

A leaf of the same plant swirls in my glass of whiskey. 

And the notion of iciness that it adds to the bitterness of the liquid turns to ash in my mouth as I take a sip. I, myself, sit on the armrest on the couch, alone—but not alone physically. Hobi rests, leisurely, next to me and she’s stolen glances at him more times than I like. Looked at him while completely avoiding the ring of protectiveness I’ve conjured around myself. 

She does good, but it spreads fire to the strangeness of my feelings that I can’t name. 

Is she throwing a rope around another one of the boys? Her claws itching to rise? 

Who’s next? 

I sigh as she laughs, softly, at something Namjoon says and it deepens my ire. Namjoon should’ve made order as the leader of our group. Should’ve said no to Jungkook at the unfolding of his news and keep the number of our group to seven. Especially when our time together is this precious. 

Not chatting her up and coaxing that wonderful sound out of her.  

“Can we get you anything to drink?” Namjoon asks, waving his hand in the direction of the alcohol station out far in the left corner of the lounge room. A mint plant mocks me as my eyes flick to it while I take another sip. The reason why it’s there in the first place is because Jimin likes his mojitos. 

He sips on it like it’s a Capri-Sun as I swallow the dark liquid after swirling it in my mouth for a moment, the bitterness doing nothing to stifle my ire. 

“No,” she says, feebly, brushing her fingers down the length of her ebony hair before tossing it over her shoulder, giving me a perfect look of one singular strand that has been dyed in the same pale green color that is suffused all though Jungkook’s hair. The shade, but darker, more sinister, imbues my blood with envy. It’s not that soft color, redolent of spring meadows, by any chance. It’s an ancient, vague memory of a forest once in full bloom that is now withering and dying at dusk. How long has he been seeing her that they reached this base? “I don’t drink hard liquor, but thank you.” 

Namjoon licks his lips, spreading his arms over the two empty chairs beside him. “Ah,” he laments, smiling at her, gently. “You don’t drink at all?” 

Jungkook lifts his head from his plate, laughing through his nose as he chews his food, his mouth forming into that bunny smile of his. He knows something I don’t and my green blood boils. 

The cat girl grins, her head twisted in Jungkook’s direction when she laughs, the skin under her chin rounding out, and my chest tightens in endearment at the sight of it. 

The cutest fucking double chin I ever have the eyes to see. 

Fuck. 

“Oh, she drinks,” Jungkook says, his words muffled due to his full cheeks, the food inside showing as he continues to be all smiles.

The cat girl pinches his arm, but owing to the thick fluffiness of his jumper, she doesn't reach skin, and therefore doesn't inflict the pain she intended. Jungkook pretends to moan in pain, anyway. My chest tightens again—this time for a beat longer. 

An oddity flies through my vision, slicing through my envy. 

Her claws sinking into my bare skin as I let her playfulness out—

I shake that picture out of my head as quickly as it arrives, running my fingers through my strands that had fallen in front of my eyes. The girl helps my effort by speaking, distracting me from the faint rush of lust that begins to course down my body. 

I can’t get hard. 

“Yeah, I only drink wine,” she reveals, coyness entwining around her tone, and she kneads her hands, struggling with her straight posture. 

Another distraction, one that softens, most peculiarly, my lust. 

If I were born with deaf ears, I would’ve known she was fighting through her shyness by one glance at her body language and I don’t blame her. 

She doesn’t have only seven pairs of eyes watching her. She’s the apple of fifteen more if I include our staff, sound engineers and our management. 

If I weren’t the person I was and if this wasn’t my job, I would have run the first chance I got. A certain admiration envelops my heart the more I study her toy with her fingers, soothingly, because of a reason that aches to admit. 

A reason far from plain. 

She’s the same as me. Uncomfortable by and disliking any public event with people involved, especially if you’re put in a position to talk. 

A bond forms and I can’t stop it. I can’t rip it apart even as I willfully try in my headspace to cut off that red string tied around my heart, leading to hers. I can’t because she eventually slouches, giving up, her spine protruding towards me through the open back of her dress, for she’s turned her body towards Namjoon, who sits at the head of the table, but I figure she did it in order to be closer to Jungkook to gain some comfort from him. The skin of her back is refulgent and tanned, scattered with little blemishes that connect, like constellations, to a night sky full of birthmarks, and that only add to her beauty.

Her whole back is filled with them, stirring my wonder. And, unknowingly, she let me see by sweeping her hair to one side. I wonder if Jungkook has seen them and appreciates them as much as I do—

Jungkook burps, obscenely loudly, setting down Hobi’s unfinished can of Sprite that he left on the table. I’m sure Hobi’s regretting making that mistake, but when I look at him, he’s smiling so widely that I can see his gums and I’m so astounded by that view that I’m thrown off my balance. 

Even more so, when I check the reactions of the other members and begin to feel shame descending down my own spine like cold sweat. Jimin has hearts thumping in his eyes, raising his hand in the girl cat’s direction, connecting with her as he says he loves a good bubbly. Taehyung, sitting on the direct opposite side of Jungkook by the table with his arms crossed and his face flushed intones that tonight after the show he will break his sobriety streak. Jin joins the table and flicks Taehyung’s forehead, tells him he doesn’t have to break anything while taking a huge bite of his banana. And Namjoon… he laughs, hands intertwined upon the back of his head. 

The whole table laughs, in fact.

Hobi does beside me, too.

I’m the only one who doesn’t, steeped in my uncertainty as I am. 

They all bask in comfort and gaiety. There’s no awkwardness, no unspoken words or silence that hangs heavily in the air. There’s no need for our hummingbird; no need to change directions, play pretend or act accordingly to the new situation because there’s absolutely nothing new about the atmosphere I find myself to be in. Everything is as if it were just the seven of us. 

Making jokes, lighthearted energy, connections lengthening and digging deep… 

I haven’t seen that, been a part of that in so long. 

I was wrong—and the shame, stemming from my wrong impression and unwarranted fear, washes out the envy from my blood. It stands, arm to arm, with my life-long emptiness and I bow my head down, licking my lips.

I wish to exit myself out of this room. 

I wish my heart wasn’t so sensitive. 

I wish— 

“It’s her birthday today and I bought so many bottles of champagne and wine,” Jungkook says, running his tongue over his teeth, and my head lifts; my heart enlarges before it shrinks, painfully, magnifying my shame until it grazes the flesh like a shard. It’s her birthday? “I’ll need your help, guys. We’re not celebrating here tonight. After the show, we’re going to my place.” 

It’s not peach honeysuckle that I’m thinking of. Not pancakes. Not our hummingbird and butterfly as the boys cheer all over again, wishing her happy birthday. 

It’s her that I’m thinking of. 

And how much I messed up. 

He brought her here to make her birthday special—to be with her on the day that carries her name, not to replace me.

It explains why she’s so magnificently dressed up; why she’s putting her feet through so much pain in those heels of hers. 

Just for one night. And I’ve managed to ruin it so majestically with my energy. No wonder she won’t look at me; no wonder her eyes won’t even sweep past me en route to Hobi’s chocolate fountain that his eyes emanate. 

Mine are nothing but death. I don’t blame the decline of her smile as her pools met it. A kitty cat that looked at the face of a skull. It symbolized the end of time and now I perceive that it epitomizes the end of me. 

The longer she’s present, the more I loosen the consuming negativity that I’ve lived for so long in compliance with—because now I’m soft. 

I’m gutted I made her feel awful to be here with my dark energy. 

“Jungkook, you should’ve told us that was the reason why you brought her along. We would have welcomed you with a happy birthday song,” Namjoon says, his palm lifted towards Jungkook and her while his other hand reminds behind his head. 

I can’t see her smile. Not even a hint of it in her eyes, for this time around she doesn’t turn around to steal a glance at Hobi. And I wish she would, with a strength that I’m in awe that I’m even possessing, because I find myself yearning to look at her face, amidst my softness. 

I misjudged her so terribly that the yearning doubles as she presses her hands against her cheeks amidst the overbearing attention. Becomes a need—a need to fix what I so unfairly have broken. 

And jealousy thunderstrikes in my system when Jungkook bumps his shoulder into hers, gently, his head tipped low, fixed in her direction as she struggles, once again, in her shyness. Straightens her spine just in time for Jungkook to curl a finger around her ear and take off her black mask. 

I’m so jealous everyone else gets to see her face fully that indignation supersedes my past ire and my softness and I’m quickly up on my feet, ready to walk out to breathe in some fresh air but something else steps into my plan. 

And it’s not her. 

It could never be her. 

Staffs members circle around us, guiding us out of the room to wire us up. But I stall my time, purposefully staying behind so I can look at her. I pretend to exercise my pain from my shoulder surgery by rolling it and making a face. Jungkook whispers something to her, her face pointed upwards as he stands before her while she remains sitting and I’m so bothered by it that it calls out the pain, incites it to come haunt me again. 

Everyone else had something to say to her—and yet I still haven’t, owing to my foolish mistake. Self-hatred fastens to my anger and I can’t breathe, my lack of knowing what to say to her when the time comes worsening my feelings. 

The boys leave the room and it’s just me and her. The staff member knows not to push me, but the pressure in her eyes is the driving force that takes my legs to the kitty girl. 

She sits so awfully forlornly in her chair, reminds me so much of Jungkook, her spine back to slouching, that marvelous pillar protruding again and my lungs do that thing they seem to automatically do whenever I see that part of her. 

She hears my footfalls as I approach her, but she doesn’t turn around. I ignore the way it makes me feel, the heaviness that comes with it, too. She, in most probability, thinks I’m walking out of this room without saying a word to her, but I’m not capable of that. 

Not anymore. 

I call out her name and, in surprise, she lifts her spine. Turns around, at last, the sleek fabric of the dress adding swiftness to the movement and I see her face. Her full mouth that compliments, most perfectly, her big feline eyes. And I think about how much her dark, sensual energy doesn’t mirror her personality, her coyness that hides inside until someone speaks to her. Her chin is so small that my fist would still be empty if I held it in the way my body asks for, but the look she gives me diminishes the lust that slowly begins to crawl again within me. 

It’s one that bears a different kind of shyness. It’s fear-induced respect and the hatred towards myself thickens. 

I don’t want her to feel this way, but I molded it in her. 

It’s my fault. 

It’s why I think twice before I tell my fingers no, for they ache to drum against the top edge of her chair in effort to linger in her proximity. I won’t encourage her discomfort when I yearn to wipe it clean. But when she inhales my prolonged silence and raises her thin brows in waiting, the tiniest sliver of a smile quivering on her lips, she doesn’t know it—but she somehow gives me the words I was lacking. 

“Did Jungkook tell you where to go?” I ask, softly, fearing her knees will turn away from me, her body language divulging to me the depth of her uneasiness around me. But she remains put, the pillows of her lips balancing at last as they stretch out in a small grin that I don’t deserve. 

Her slender nose crinkles. 

My heart forgets to beat.

“No, he told me to wait here and that Min-ji will take me to a room where I can watch you, guys, perform on the TV,” she says, her grin making it difficult for her to get the words out and she blushes. There must be some other, silent language shared between our bodies because I discover myself smiling, too, even though there’s nothing from her sentence that can possibly be the cause of it. 

The energy shifts, devastatingly, and heat clings to my skin, dispersing relief down my nerve endings. 

All while buzzing tingles chase it, hastily, grabbing it by the back of its shirt and consuming it. 

It’s strange, so terribly strange to be consumed by nervousness when I’ve been used to nothingness and emptiness for so long. 

And her eyes seem to grow bigger, despite the irrepressible dynamism of her fear. Is she gaining thrill out of it—to be staring at the face of breaking death like the small kitten she is and knowing it’s her power that influences me? 

Those eyes. If my ears weren’t bombarded by Hobi’s sound effects wafting down the hall and into the lounge room, mingling with the rise and fall of Jungkook’s voice as he warms it up, I swear I can hear the song of swallows in them. She’s a manifestation of a summer evening in her fear and nervousness, when those birds go mad in the tender blues and pinks of the sky—and I don’t know why I like it so much. Why I want to seize it in my hand and squeeze it. 

And she’s about to be all alone here with it while I go join the rest of my brothers. 

It’s something that doesn’t feel right. 

The staff member taps me on my back. Time is against me—why doesn’t she control it? I swivel behind me to catch her nodding her chin in the direction of the hall and I sigh, quietly. 

“Wait with her until Min-ji comes to get her, so she’s not alone here,” I tell her, then look down at the kitty girl again. 

Her raised brows create wrinkles on her forehead and once she sees that I’ve noticed, she relaxes, wetting her lips. Doesn't want me to see the surprise that comes from what she created in me. 

How cute. 

“Enjoy the show,” I murmur, moving my feet towards the exit. I gaze back at her, catch her lungs shuddering, and the words slip off my tongue before I scramble the courage to stop them. “And happy birthday.” 

Her blush reaches her neck and it’s all my vision consists of—even when I’m performing. 

Our interaction was too short. Too, too short. And my anger took on a new face. 

Hers. 

Every word I rapped as I stared into the camera, I felt it dissolving in me and transforming into a yearning so great that my verses gained new meaning. A yearning to see her again, talk to her, pinch that fear in my fingers and fling it away, make space for something in her that had the vigor to surprise me and make me soft again. And in my concentration, I didn’t have the fight in me to put a stop to it. I was doing my duty for the happiness of our Army and while I thought about her, it seemed right. Those two things went along and it spurred a pleasant feeling in me that was warmer than the adrenaline sticking to my inflamed body from all the performing. 

It didn’t hit me that she was watching me the whole time until my eyes regarded her unperturbed, flaccid posture in that white plastic chair, wading in my thoughts as I was. Her grin and the flecks of light in her eyes illuminate the room with orange, blazing fire. She’s barefoot, her heels kicked to the side, crooked, elegiac, yet still sensuous. Our show is being rerun on the TV and she’s watching it, transfixed, not realizing me and Jungkook were the first to come to her out of the group. 

A mental connection clicks in my brain at the sight of it. The peach blossoms of the honeysuckle, Jungkook and the genuine love I carry for him. It is that orange color—it’s a home that keeps it safe, the atmosphere that she exudes through her evident elation and I don’t really understand why I feel this way. 

I haven’t even known her for a day. 

And it’s forced to collapse when her pools don’t find mine, but Jungkook’s once we walk in, joining her. She holds up her hand in the air, curling down her middle and ring fingers in while the rest of her digits remain erect, small and slim as they are. Her nose crunches up in the way it did when our bodies spoke in that secret language. And when she laughs and the corners of her eyes crinkle, I realize she’s mimicking his gesture that he so often does on stage while showing off his Army tattoo. 

The finger-fucking gesture. 

Her blush beams on her face, even more so when she does a stroking movement with her curled fingers, and I can’t help but wonder, briefly, if that’s how she does it to herself when she’s all alone and the night sinks inside her skin to get a refill of her juices, only to smear it across the sky.

It’s what I need to focus on, so I don’t explode in anger that she ignores me. 

Jungkook cackles, sticking out his tongue and doing the gesture. I hide my face in my towel, getting rid of the sweat coating me—but it pours out of my pores again when I hear her giggle. 

And I need to leave, my imagination no longer strong enough to withstand the jealousy that poisons my blood all over again. 

I fling the towel out and away from me, not caring where it lands. 

I don’t meet any eyes as I walk out, keeping my sight fixed on the gray floor, streaked with black lines from the hundreds of wheels of carts that have drove down the hall and from all the sneakers that have walked past. I follow them and I don’t know where they take me until I’m suddenly face to face with the gaping night. 

And it’s not her. 

It’s my wound. 

No stars for a naked pupil to see. Merely an abounding canvas of blackness that stares back at me and questions me, questions my feelings when it knows full well how hard I’ve wept, many times, in its airy embrace. 

I sit against the wall, needing something solid to support me, the spaciousness of the roof enveloping me, but not tightly enough. There, but never close enough—always a safe distance apart, as if afraid of me. 

Everyone is so always fucking afraid of me. 

And when they lean in and graze my heart, they get repulsed by me. 

It’s an ouroboros that my life, like my legs, follows. Like a dog chasing its own tail—and it’s such a perfect comparison because I’ve always been alone, save for my brothers. Distracted for a while, then alone again. 

I’m weary of it, despite the fact my body tends to wait for the thrill of the attention, longs for it, even when I dislike it. I’m an oxymoron that won’t cease and I have to live with it. 

And I can’t exit out of it because I have millions of lives that depend on me, plus six more. 

I sigh and I think sucking on a cigarette, numbly, while I crawl on my knees through the forest of my thoughts and feelings would be a thing of perfection. But I can’t afford that. Not when we’re working again. Not when our boss lurks at every corner, has eyes everywhere. Jungkook has had his last hotdog for a while and I… 

I swathed my broken strings around someone he brought into my life. 

Through a little hole my brothers let me see by forcing her to sit through a conversation that was a pain for her. A moonlight stripe of her personality, encased by her social anxiety and shyness. One that has awakened my body to emotions it hasn’t felt the touch of in a long time. 

Why am I not fighting it? 

Why am I not coercing my soul into submission, into that abyss of emptiness and hostility? 

Why am I letting myself feel? 

She’s just a girl that he’s seeing. Many stories like these have been written before and we’ve read the lines, recognized words that limned us, only for the love interest to disappear into thin air after some time like she never existed. And she’d just be another character in his love chronicles, if her persona hadn’t spoken to me so much. 

If her body hadn’t spoken to me in a language no one knows—not even me. 

I can’t begin my sentences about her with ‘she’s just a girl’, because she isn’t. 

And I don’t understand how that’s come to be. 

It happened so quickly that I fear I wasn’t present enough. 

My wound tilts its head as my world does the same thing—slants on its axis. Coos at me, seeing me, seeing through me. Reminds me of what happened the last time I felt. 

The passing of my girlfriend gave me the gift of a gun to my hand—gave me the face of death that I’ve been carrying ever since because it nearly made my dream of time ending come true. And the kitty girl… standstill hangs off her fingers like a pearl necklace that’s too long. And I find myself wanting to wear it. Because it’s her decision, her consciousness, her will. 

Not mine. 

And it will bring me closer to my Sun-mi.

My wound begins to cry at the memory of her, raindrops pitter-pattering on the tin ridges of the rooftop and I cherish that she’s remembered and honored by such vastness, by such picturesqueness that I’ve always considered the night to be. And when the wind brushes along my fidgeting hands, I almost feel her touch all over again. 

Feel. 

I feel. 

And in my heart, I tell her. I sail to her, attaching myself to her again. Tell my Sun-mi that I am capable of feeling and that I don’t know how it came together in me. And I ask her, in utmost respect, to guide me on this unknown path. 

Because I am alone without her. Adrift, without rhyme and reason. No wits to me, no rationality, no clear perception of right and wrong. 

There’s only grayness to me. 

Maybe that’s why I, unknowingly, dyed my hair this color before the start of the tour. 

And it dawns on me, now that one chapter has closed in my life, that the passing of my Sun-mi a year and a half ago is the reason why I’ve clung to Jungkook so rigidly. Because I couldn’t spend my time on her, I spent it on Jungkook. Because I had all this love for her and I couldn’t give it to her, so I gave it to Jungkook. 

And the kitty girl has put a stop to it. 

Sun-mi graces me with the tepid, yet fuzzy impression that it’s good—that it was meant to happen. And I believe her. 

And with my belief, the rain thickens. 

A thunder rolls forward from a far-away corner of the canvas of the sky that I can’t see. And I dwell in the pool of the fountain of the love I still have for her and forever will continue to have. Kneel in it. Search for her. 

I imagine her. The button of her nose, the curl of her top lip whenever we ridiculed aegyo by doing it together and doing a good fucking job while at it. I imagine her small fist at her round cheek, but she connects my memories to the kitty girl. 

And she consumes me, wholly.

Sun-mi makes me imagine her doing a cat-like aegyo and as the corner of my mouth lifts, a particular fear devours my gut. 

A fear of closeness. 

A fear of doing something with her that I did with Sun-mi, even when she okays it in my spirit. 

A fear of reliving something so painful again. 

The rain inches towards me and I scurry to my feet, my hand trembling as I open the door to the staircase. And when I shut out the sound of hard rainfall and prevent the traumatic memories of my accident from slinking into my mind, it’s the only strength I have left. 

And I crumble. 

I mirror the rain I abhor so much. 

I sit on the top of the staircase and I sear my hands with my acid-suffused tears. Sob so devastatingly that I don’t recognize myself, drenching the denim fabric over my knees. And when I pull on my hair, numbness is all that I detect within me. 

Good. 

No feelings; only emptiness. 

I steel myself by taking a few deep breaths, letting the oxygen settle that deep in me. And I unattach myself from my Sun-mi, promise her I will get back to her soon. Go back to who I previously was before I scraped the skin of my knees raw on the hardened soil of my emotions and thoughts. 

Alone death. 

But Sun-mi doesn’t sail away back to heaven. Doesn’t let me go. She stomps her foot on the wet grass of my heart and I understand why. I asked her to guide me and what I didn’t know was that she would break the laws of heaven in order to do that. She wouldn’t whisper words of wisdom into the chambers of my heart. She would take my hand and show me wisdom, pointing me to the right decision. 

That is my Sun-mi. 

I let her because I need her. I bow to her and I would stoop to my stomach on this dirty, metal staircase floor to divulge my respect and gratitude to her if I didn’t hear a voice echoing up towards me. 

A familiar male voice calling out to me. 

Sun-mi pulls me to it and tingles vibrate down my legs as I fly through the stairs, skipping the bottom ones in order to get me faster to my brother. Sun-mi pumps blood into my heart, refreshing the grass she lays upon, and lightness descends upon my shoulders. 

Her work of art. 

Heaving, I meet Jungkook in the doorframe, glancing up at me, disappointment lidding his eyes. But I don’t fear, not when Sun-mi is with me. He opens the door wider for me to step through, but I remain fixed on my spot, panting, ringing piercing through my hearing sense. 

Too much adrenaline at once in a season of drought. My body is unable to catch up to the new acclimatization. 

“What’s going on?” I ask, my throat raw from my crying and I clear it, so there’s no evidence of my sensitivity. Sun-mi caresses the wall of my heart to soothe me and tears burn at the back of my eyes—from the simple fact that I can feel her. 

I’ve felt her only once before. A week after she died, I prayed to her, loudly, until I lost my voice. Begged her to come back to me. 

And she did. 

And it felt nice until it didn’t—so I made it my habit to attach and unattach myself because of my fragility. It is only a matter of time before the logic of your mind distinguishes a real person from a ghost. And the parting of that vulnerable mist, in the middle of your agony, isn’t for the faint-hearted. 

But Sun-mi, at this very moment, feels more real than she ever has. As if she truly was hidden in the rooms of my heart like a little doll, like a little angel that has the task from above to guide me. 

And because I need it, I’ll let more time pass through this transcendental connection. 

Jungkook flattens his lips, tightly, the tip of his tongue poking out to play with the thin metal pierced through his bottom lip. He’s changed back into the clothes he came in, minus the fluffy jacket. A black T-shirt, black pants and sneakers. It makes the green of his hair stand out—just like the wisp of the same color on that singular strand of the girl kitty’s hair. 

They have a tendency to match and shame boils in me, that Sun-mi is a witness to the jealousy I feel. I haven’t told her and I don’t know if I want to. In my momentary cowardice, I hope that she can sense it and validate it. 

But I gain nothing from her. 

Silence. 

One that Jungkook breaks. 

“Staff said that we have to wait until the storm passes.” 

My stomach sinks, the memory of the rainfall faint in my ears. “Good.” 

Jungkook pauses before he voices out the question that I can visibly see rising in him. Nibbles his bottom lip, the metal tilting to the side like my world. “Where did you go?” 

My breath shivers as I inhale, tasting my half-false words before I speak them. “I felt hot and I needed some fresh air.” 

I felt jealous that you made dirty innuendos with your friend, I don’t say. It led me to seek my dead girlfriend because I feel inclined to fraternize with that aforementioned friend. 

Jungkook frowns. “You went out in the rain?” 

I pass through the gap between his body and the doorframe, not able to stand the position I’ve been put in, anxiety prickling my fingertips. Jungkook lets the door shut behind him with a loud thud, following closely behind me until he falls in step beside me. 

“It felt refreshing until it didn’t,” I decide to mutter. Typical words of mine—I can’t stand them either. 

Sun-mi is still silent.

Maybe I should unattach myself, protect myself from further pain. It was a moment of weakness, anyways—

Jungkook rubs my shoulder, gently, the fixed one, barely touching me, but the gesture is there. And I grasp why I love him so much. 

His gentleness is everything to me. 

“The rain will stop,” he says and I take those words to heart, giving them the meaning that they are the wisdom I needed to hear, the wisdom I sought from my quiet Sun-mi. 

The rain will stop. 

The sensitivity will stop, too. 

And time will stop soon, one day. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hobiberrystuff.

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[razzle-n-dazzle]

- hi ! 💌,,

ISTG you’re writing is so well done and creative I had to contain myself from like spam!!

I hope you’re still taking request and if you’re not that’s totally cool, I’ll wait ‘till next round.

Adam reincarnates in hell and oh, would you look at that? the s/o is the only one trying to help and not making him feel worse that he already is. (i just need wholesome content, exam week is killing me rn).

AGAIN, love you’re writing thx for reading so far!

ᯓ★ Let's Give This Another Shot (and not fuck it up this time) Sinner! Adam / Sinner! Reader | Drabble

‗ content / trigger warning: fluff, swearing, Adam being Adam, not proof read (we die like Adam) ‗ author's note: this is for everyone who's dealing with exam weeks, it sucks but I believe in all of you any you're going to kill those exams! (don't let them kill you!). Also thank you so much for the compliments Anon <3, I write for the people and myself, so I'm glad everyone is enjoying the crazy shit I've posted here!

ᯓ When you fall from grace, it's not a pleasant feeling; That Adam knew - or at least he thought he knew - well enough from hearing about Lucifer falling, hearing the horrific things the others whispered about it, mentioning it in passing before the thought disappeared and dispelled into the air as though Lucifer had never held a place in Heaven. As though he was nothing that what he was now, demonic figure that wore a crown made out of skeletons and bones fashioned to mimic horns. Adam never cared about the stories that were whispered, about the horrors he sometimes heard through passing, about Sera recalling how she heard Lucifer scream on the way down, about how Michael watched with horror as Lucifer tried to shield Lilith and himself, about how Gabriel heard his pleads and couldn't do anything; No one could save him from the fate that had been weighed on his shoulders as soon as he had fed the apple to Eve. And partly it was because Adam blamed Lucifer for ruining his paradise, for infecting the mind of both his (ex) wives and causing him grief and pain. Dying alone is almost just as unpleasant as falling from grace; almost.

ᯓ You see, while Adam had died alone on Earth, at least his soul went to somewhere pleasant and he was able to continue living; To make a name for himself and, he guessed, make some friends and live a rather worriless and carefree life in the clouds. He was able to have fun, rock out, and be known as the first human soul ever being able to reach Heaven - that was something not even Eve managed to do, and he took it with pride! It was his title. It was partly who he was. Maybe it was all he was. That much became more clear to him when he found himself waking up in Hell again, the stabbing pain of a dagger striking his back still their along with the weight of his wings. At first, he had thought he managed to survive the assassination attempt, that Lute had just left him in Hell on accident or because she thought he was dead. It caused some sort of pride to well in his chest, a flame that sparked his need to go boost and scream at the top of his lungs - he had survived an angelic weapon! He was immune! He was the strongest angel there was, because Sera would totally fall and die in a sad crumble after being stabbed with angelic metal! He was . . .

ᯓ And that's when Adam happened to pass by a mirror, or well more of a reflective glass on the street of Hell (as he walked, not questioning the odd ball looks he got), and that's when he saw it; What looked like a stranger to be staring back at him, engulfing and taking over his reflection like they owned it, like it was there own. That wasn't him! Well, it looked like him, he could admit that, but it wasn't as sexy or as handsome as him! The reflection would copy his movement, snarling as he did and grinning all the same. With his same fluffed up hair and piercing eyes, the reflection wore no mask yet still held the horns of his all the same; Even the way they slowly curled back before dipping down, forming and L for the gold spikes to rest at the end. The reflection wore his exterminator uniform, yet it was the darker version with the yellow having somehow been dulled and deepened and faded out all at once. His wings were still golden, still tucking at his sides from under his arms all the same, though there was no halo to accompany them this time. And Adam almost wanted to laugh, maybe it was hysteria or maybe it was disbelief, yet he watched to cry and laugh and break the glass all at once; Denying that this was his fate, being unable to stomach that he, First Man Adam, was not only double dead yet in hell. Hell! The first man cannot be in hell, he had created everyone on Earth; All of them came from his nuts and in turn all of them should be praising the fucking land he walked on because if it wasn't for him he wouldn't be here!

ᯓ And yet the Reflection looked back all the same, teasing him with a distorted grin; Like it could feel his distress in the way he curled his fist, pulling back before he slammed it against the glass. It gave a crack, a small one at first, before completely shattering. Adam could care less what shop or business had that glass, he could care less how he effected them or how he was going to be painted in Hell, because this was some crazy mistake! He was not supposed to be down here and he was not going to stand for some stupid mistake that happened because some small crazy bitch decided to back-stab him! Literally! And yet, if Adam wanted any of the answers he so desperately craved, he would have to suck in some of his pride and trudge along to the damn Hotel and talk to the residence who had taken his life. It would take him a while before he accepted such a fate, taking the chance between deciding and doing to walk along the Pride Ring before stumbling into the wrong town and being chased out by crazy demons who wanted to bite him! Maybe even eat him . . . What crazy place is this?!

ᯓ When Adam had begrudging and reluctantly knocked on the new Hotel door, which he would never admit to stopping and marveling at for a second, he would feel that ever irritating dread weigh in his stomach. Who wouldn't feel such a feeling after coming to the front door of a group of people you had tried to exterminate only, Adam didn't know how long, prior! Maybe, silently, somewhere inside Adam knew if he were in their shoes, having faced what they had, he wouldn't accept him either; He would throw him to the curb. Yet, he didn't exactly like that thought, and it wasn't very on brand, so he shoved it down and away and deep until all the could think about is: How in the hell would they not accept me? I'm Adam, I'm the first man! And yet when the door opened, allowing Adam to come face to face with none other than Vaggie, he felt that dread creep in a little. But, not enough to stop him from greeting Vaggie in a less that desirable way, "What's up Vagasaurus?" The sneering comment left his mouth, "I love what you did with the place. You know, it looks slightly less like a destroyed pile of Sh-" Yet the door would only slam in his face before Adam could finish his thoughts or his words; Leaving him standing outside, a tad awkwardly, waiting for the doors to open again. He, also, would never admit giving a glance behind him, making sure no one was standing there to watch him standing in front of the doors.

ᯓ "Vaggie, who was that?" Charlie would call to her girlfriend as she walked away from the door, coming towards where Charlie sat on the floor organizing new activities that everyone could do. All while Nifty rushed around nearby, cleaning Sir Pentious' and Dazzle's memorials in the new Hazbin Hotel. She muttered to herself quietly, not bothering Angel and Husk, who sat at the bar. "No one important." Vaggie would mumble, not being able to catch her tone before it could reveal that it was someone less than desirable. Possibly another sinner choosing a path of redemption after the last extermination! Which the thought caused Charlie to gain a burst of energy, barreling onto her feet so quickly that she knocked around the carefully organized slits of paper on the floor. Vaggie tried to protest, saying it was truly no one at the door and Charlie should just leave it alone! But she was never a really good lair, "Oh calm down Vaggie, I'm sure it's no one bad!" Charlie would grin with a wave, her hand touching the crisp and cool metal of the door handle before swinging the door back open. "Hi, welcome to the Hazbin Hotel! How can I-" And yet her words fell flat as soon as her eyes were locked onto Adam's - who quickly spun around, pretending like he hadn't just been looking behind him - and was also welcomed by his light groan of annoyance. "Oh fuck me." ". . . help you." Charlie's voice flattened, dropping as her eyes widened. You know, she's never felt this shocked to see someone at the steps of the Hotel before since Alastor had came along without warning.

ᯓ "Adam?!"

ᯓ "BITCH CAN YOU NOT SHOUT MY NAME?!" Was the next words that were exclaimed out of the ex-angel, the now outcast, as he seemed rather eager to push Charlie inside of her own Hotel and walk in after; Quickly shutting the door as though there was someone outside waiting and stalking him, watching him with all their attention. "Hey no, you cannot just let yourself in here this isn't Heaven!" Vaggie was swift to march her way over to the two, seeing as Charlie wasn't doing anything to discard of Adam she might as well do it herself! No way was she going to let some two-timing exorcist angel not only push her girlfriend around yet also push his way into the hotel. Who did he think he is? And yet Charlie waved out a hand, stopping Vaggie in her tracks. There was confusion, and the two at the bar would turn their heads, before scowling seeing the fallen angel. Adam was sure he could hear Angel's accented voice loud and clear shouting out, 'oh what the fuck is this bullshit!' before Charlie began to talk to him again in a rushed fashion; One he remembered quite well during the meeting that Lucifer subbed her in for instead of coming to it himself, and he was still annoyed by her voice. "What are you doing down here? I thought you-! You know . . . " Charlie rushed out, trying to make it quick as though the others at the hotel would jump and kill Adam again with no remorse, finishing the job that clearly didn't stay permeant the first time; And, honestly, Adam wouldn't put it above anyone here to do that. Adam, who had been picking at his teeth with his pinkie finger, would turn away from Charlie and shrug his shoulders, "Yeah, well, I fuckin' did and ended up down here for some fucking reason, probably a mistake and mix up of souls. I'm sure you have plenty of those down here, pft!- I mean who else would want to stay in this charity case!-" "We're not entertaining you Adam!" Vaggie would cut off the ex-angel, causing his interest to peak over at her. Though he relaxed quickly enough, maybe too quickly seeing as Vaggie had drown out her own weapon and that . . . nasty little creature stood beside her with the dagger made out of angelic metal; Now that little one-eyed demon could give Adam the creeps, maybe even a little (lot) fright, but not Vaggie. "You know, I thought were all trying to redeem souls in this junk box of yours." Adam scoffed, quickly crossing his arms with a tilt of his head. "Are you fucking discriminating against me wanting to return to where I rightfully belong just because I was an angel before this? Wow, that's a low blow, especially for someone light you." Adam's voice dripped with sarcasm mixed with malice, maybe even still a little pride. "You literally tried killing up like- 2 weeks ago!" Vaggie would gesture to the side, as though trying to compare time to the length of her arm. "Oh shit it's been too weeks?" Adam paused, thinking about it yet drawing a blank and shrugging in result, "Shit, didn't know, pft! That shit must still be fresh for you then, huh? Well, let me remind you all that you weren't the ones who DIED!-"

ᯓ "Adam?" Your voice would slip out into the common space of the lobby of the hotel, honey sweat to Adam's ears; Filling them with a melody that could match the songs of Heaven, running down his spine with the comfort he didn't know he needed until now. But even then, you knew he wouldn't break his 'tough man' exterior until you managed to snag him along, away from the prying eyes of everyone else. "Holy shit, hey Babe!" Adam was quick, rushing past and slightly pushing Charlie out of his way to make his way over to you, over to his love. "What the fuck are you doing in a dumb like this? I thought you said you had your own fucking spot near Cannibal Town!" - It had been the only reason why he had tried traveling to that cursed town, even while knowing its residents might try and take a bite out of him or his wings. He craved for the familiarity of someone in this new world, as he had never felt this vulnerable since his first days on Eden; Earth. God's Earth. "Babe?" A chorus of confused, slightly concerned, and baffled voices followed as Adam came to your side, swinging an arm around your waist and instantly drawing you closer. You swore he was fighting off the urge to flick off the others, a casual fuck you for trying to push him off and out. You could feel their eyes as you leaned up to pepper a kiss into Adam's shoulder, to which he squeezed your waist slightly tighter, adorning a snicker upon his face. "Wait, wait!-" Vaggie started, taking a staggering step forward as her arms laid limp besides her. One of her eyebrows were cocked up, her eyes narrow, "What do you mean Babe?" Your name left her lips, "Don't tell me you're dating that fucker!" She would soon exclaim, tossing her hands out as they finally regained the life they had lost. To which you would turn towards her confused, and then remember oh yeah . . . the battle. The one you hadn't been present for though heard about through Channel 666 News; In all honesty it's why you had came here, to the Hotel, to see if you could try and get to Heaven and find Adam again - praying he didn't actually die but was taken back to Heaven to heal or was revived in some way. "Uh, yeah. Adam's my boyfriend-" You would start with a wavering smile, nerves tugging at the edge of your lips. "Oh, this couldn't have gotten worse." Angel would groan, slamming his head down onto the bar countertop, acting like a disappointed parent; Silently telling you that you could have done better. To which you placed a hand on your hip, about to tell Angel off, only to be cut off by Husk tsking and shaking his head, "I would not put you as an Angel and sexist fucker, but whatever rows your boat." His tone came off dry, uninterested, and a little hostile. And with Charlie's silence, you couldn't help but feel the weight of everyone's words a little heavier.

ᯓ And Adam noticed that, with one glance down at you and your face, his wings would flare defensively and his glare was snapped back at the other demons. He couldn't care less that they had been talking shit about him, he couldn't care less on how they saw him or the reasons they thought you could do better than him; They shouldn't care about whether or not someone was out of their friend's league if they were clearly happy with the person! That, Adam knew - or maybe he believed it more. "Hey, what your fucking mouths!-" He would start, trying to draw you away from the others. Sure, he was no longer an Angel, but he was sure as hell he could take any of them in a fight anyways! And yet, his anger was snuffed like a candle as soon as you placed your hand on his chest, gently pushing in and pushing him back. The breath of ire was caught in his throat, not even being able to reach his lungs, as he glanced down at you, noticing the spark that you had seemingly stolen right out of his chest and placed in your eyes. He knew your reservations of fighting with friends, or with anyone in general, so he couldn't help but feel pride swell up in his chest watching you stand up for yourself, for you and him: "I will not let you speak about me, nor Adam that way!" You defended, shooting a star through your eyelashes that the group; Who seemed just as taken aback as Adam had been before the warmth spread from his chest. Vaggie would scrunch her face, much more concerned that irritated or disappointed, but also all of that at the same time. Your name slipped from her lips, "You can't be serious! He's . . ." She stumbled for a moment, trying to grasp her words, "He's led genocides on Sinners all over Hell! He's like really gross and he doesn't respect people. He's a douche and a dick!-" "Dick master," Adam would correct Vaggie just to piss her off, earning a slight jag in the gut from you and a snarl from Vaggie. Vaggie, who, tossed out her hands once more, yet pointed at Adam this time, "See what I mean?!"

ᯓ "And tell me how you felt when you first lost your divinity?"

ᯓ The question lingered in the room, drifting and sticking in the air, as Vaggie stared at you with disbelief; Her mouth slightly open, her eyes wide, and her stance rigid. You noticed how Charlie grew nervous behind her, how she seemed rather uncomfortable in the atmosphere that been created in the room since Adam had arrived than you. She would place a hand on Vaggie's shoulders, attempting to comfort her, yet failed to pick out any words to say in response. "It's hard enough to leave somewhere you've called home," You would continue, frowning, "To be tossed out like you had meant nothing, like one mistake had deemed you unworthy despite everything great you have done in your life. Vaggie! . . . out of everyone, I would have thought at least you would understand something like that." Seeing as she had gone through the same process herself, yet had always had Charlie there by her side to walk through everything with. Was she implying that Adam didn't deserve the same because of what he had done? Sure it was crude and cruel, but everyone deserved another chance to mistake their wrongs and that was what this hotel was about; And you voiced such concerns to not just Vaggie but to Charlie as well. What makes Adam so much different from Lucifer, or say another Fallen Angel that managed to wind up down here? What makes him less worthy to be redeemed? What made him less of a human soul as say Angel or Alastor? Everyone fucks up in their life and as long as they're trying to better themselves, understanding what they did wrong and why it was wrong, they should be given a chance!

ᯓ It wasn't long before Charlie said that everyone should take a break, and as such you would lead Adam away from the crowd of people and up to your own room in the Hotel. You could feel Vaggie's eyes linger, you felt like she wanted to say something yet let her words fall short before they were ever given a chance. But, even if they had, you were too pent up to even discuss anything logically with her at the moment. And you think she could feel or at least tell and that's why her words fell short, yet you would never know - you're not Vaggie nor would you ever think like she does.

ᯓ You and Adam found yourselves in your bed after settling some matters, such as a change of clothing for him and whether or not you wanted to try and make the trip back to your apartment today; Luckily you had some of Adam's old T-shirts and joggers you had stolen from him from one of the few trips where Adam had snuck you into Heaven - and yet on the same note, either of you felt like going downstairs to face anyone to leave to your apartment. So, with not much to do, you set the TV on as background noise and brain fuzz as you snuggled up to Adam's side. You felt as his claws, at first, scratched gently at his side, pairing with a kiss on the forehead, and then they began to tap the flesh there; Like you were some little drum that made no noise, yet Adam continued until he switched to rubbing his thumb against your hip. "What's wrong, Adam?" Concern dripped from your lips, forcing Adam to draw his eyes away from the mindless television and down to meet you, and your eyes. He had known your attention had been up at him for a while, at first admiring his face (as you didn't get to see it much) yet it had shifted to concern the more he played with the plush flesh of your waist. He wondered if you could tell he was nervous from the start. Adam's eyes would falter and glance off to TV again, his words causing a lump in his throat as he tried to play through them; Trying to find the best combination to spew out instead of talking without thinking - vomiting whatever first came to mind and not thinking about it later. And maybe you could tell the trepidations that filled his head too; Seeing as you shifted your position from his side, pushing yourself up, and instead onto his lap, effectively blocking his vision of the television. Your hands rested on his chest, something so natural at this point yet something that still caused Adam's lungs to halt for a minute and for his stomach to flutter. Even so, he would give you a curious glance up and down, trancing the curves of your body with his eyes as he has done countless times before - yet every time, you managed to take his breath away. "If you wanted to fuck, babe, you could have just said so!" The snarky remark left his lips, meeting your amused yet disapproving face. He knew that's not what you wanted, yet he couldn't help but entertain yourself when you were basically straddling his waist; As such, his fingers would drag along the calf of your leg before his hands would trail up your thighs before tailing back down and up once more. He saw the flutter in your breath, yet you tried to keep your composure. Even if Adam was making it ever so hard.

ᯓ "Adam," You would start, your tone causing Adam to stop caressing your thighs. It stuck his eyes to yours, and he couldn't look away no matter how much his nerves pulled at him to. "I want you to know, no matter what happens . . . I'm here for you, okay? We're in this together. You're not a solo act anymore, we're a duet . . . or, well, more a duo act." Your words sunk down into Adam's skin, they infected through his lungs and ran to his heart before infecting all his blood and his veins. His hands, which had ran up to hold your waist, gave a gentle squeeze as he swallowed down the saliva that built up in his suddenly dry mouth. A duo act? Sure, he knew you two were dating, that you had been for a while, yet even then he had a silent thought in the back of his head that you would leave him, much like the others; So he never considered himself no more than what he had: A soloist. First Man Adam! . . . but now he was able to add being 'Yours' to his list with some sort of fire-like confidence; Burning and bright. It made his heart catch fire, even more so when you would stretch out lightly and lean down to lay down on his chest; Your warmth infecting all of him you touched, allowing his arms to wrap around your back and for his wings to fluff out and wrap around your frame. It was like he wanted to shield you from the world, shield you from Heaven, shield you from everyone and anything that wanted to hurt you. Sure he had the urge before, but now? . . . "You heard that big man?" Your voice broke through his thoughts, your teasing smirk had him fighting for a breath. You would playfully nudge his shoulder, "You're stuck with me, I'm stuck with you're, we're stuck together so you better be getting used to it! I'll fight for you, you fight for me, and we'll get back to that stupid place that outcasted you in the first place!" But he would like to stay here, with you, forever. "And we'll show Charlie and Vaggie that it can be done and that even if you fucked up you have a good heart in you! . . . Because I know you do under all the gunk." And your laughter had never sounded so sweet, and you touch has never felt so soft and loving.

ᯓ A duo act, huh? With you? Adam could get used to and stand behind that thought; Perhaps, even after all this time, he wanted nothing more than to hear those words, or well the meaning of those words, from your mouth since the start.

ᯓ But even then, with the emotions that swelled Adam's heart with nothing but pure love, he couldn't help but nuzzle his head into the crook of your neck. Your scent filled his nose with a warmth he missed, the soft skin of your neck flushed against his smirking lips, a feeling he longed for and couldn't forget. You were perfect, you always had been! "Fuck, Babe, when you say pretty shit like that, it's hard not to fuck you right here and now." Adam would groan before a loud cackle left his lips as soon as you smacked his back. All too used to his ways, you couldn't do much yet shake your head against Adam's shoulder, like a parent scolding their child for saying something offensive. "You ruined the mood Adam!" The huff escaped your lips, it hit Adam's neck and made goosebumps spring up his arms. "Again!" And yet, you didn't protest as Adam tossed you both into your sides with a fever, still cackling as though this was the funniest joke in the world - and you couldn't deny, you loved the sound of his laughter so much. Even as his stubble would tickle your neck as he did so, causing you to start laughing soon after and trying to push his head away from your neck. "Adam! Oh my god, Adam stop that tickles!" You gasped between breaths, struggling to push your boyfriend away as he found joy in your lighthearted misery. Though he would only curl around your frame, not answering your desperate calls of a truce and a stop, and trap you in his arms and wings with no remorse. "You're stuck with me Babe, you said it yourself! Now come here, let me kiss that pretty fucking face of yours until you can't breath!"

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[elysiansparadise]

hello! I hope things are well with you 💕 if it’s possible, I would love to hear your thoughts on Neptune in the 3rd house :)

Hello love! I have been slightly busy these days, but everything is fine. I would love to give you my takes on this placement. 💕

Neptune in the 3rd house

Talking to them is a unique thing, they have very deep perspectives on life, wonderful ideas capable of surprising many and the ability to see beyond the things, people and circumstances that occur around them. Naturally poetic, they dislike things that are too simple and for them a soul-touching pinch is necessary in everything that enters their minds [books, movies, music, videos, etc]. Their words can easily move the audience, there is an ethereal and touching beauty in their way of speaking. Captivating speakers even without intending to. They are an interesting and valuable mystery to discover, and I define them as a mystery because they do not usually share their ideas or thoughts with anyone, since they border on the introverted and reserved side, or in some cases even shy. They may have a great interest and knack for some branch of art, especially that which includes communicating ideas or feelings, being very effective in doing so. Many of them may doubt their abilities and also their intelligence or ability. They may be very interested in obtaining all kinds of knowledge, especially about topics that people do not dare to investigate, spiritual topics or topics that make them know themselves better on a deeper level.

In these people lies the wound of not feeling heard by their close circle, of feeling that for others what they had to say was not important, which made them close down. Within them there is a mind full of amazing ideas, an outstanding creativity that allows them to find many solutions and see things from different perspectives. They tend to be frequently distracted by the tendency to want to do several things at the same time. Daydream tendency regarding doing things they want to do or what their ideal life would be like. They may prefer deep conversations over small talk. However, these people stand out for being amazing counselors, this is due to their empathy, which makes them not advise from the point of view of what they would do, but rather what they would do if they were and lived in the context of the person. who comes to them. They have the quality of making others feel heard and understood, making conversations with them feel comfortable and natural, even if it is the first time you speak to them.

They may have difficulty following very demanding schedules or routines, preferring to do things at their own pace. They are more likely to be easily distracted and change the subject quickly. Their mind is intuitive, their sixth sense is rarely wrong, as they are excellent when it comes to reading and understanding everything around them, having the ability to read between the lines and detect all kinds of discrepancies. They adapt very easily to their environment and it is extremely difficult to lie to them. If you're not part of their inner circle or if they don't trust you yet, you'll suddenly have that epiphany: they know so much about you while you seem to know little about what lies within them. They are people with multiple interests, a curious and creative mind that leads them to dream big. Great minds that can doubt their own potential, the value of their thoughts and words even when beauty and uniqueness can be found in them. People with compassion and an ability to understand things that perhaps others are not ready to understand. They have the feeling of not finding the right words to explain what is happening inside them. Their heart can often guide their minds. The human quality in them is something that makes them beautiful beings with whom to cross paths, always leaving teachings and words that remain marked in the core of those who know them.

[adhd-fandom-hyperfocus]

Perfection

Pairing: Perturabo x Reader(f)

Arthur's Note: What is this? A little continuation from the Perturabo x Reader thing I did a while ago? Yes. Yes, it is. Also again, I am sorry if this is really OOC of Mr. Turbo, never thought I would be writing him, lol.

First part, technically

Warnings: General Grimdarkness, pregnancy, depression. Light NSFW at then end

Tagging @kit-williams because I know he is your boy.

+18 Minors DNI

★。------ ＼｜／------。★

A ship was no place for an expecting mother-to-be, and Perturabo desperately hoped to hide what this crusade asked of him from you. For you to have some illusion he was not destroying. Even if it was clear you knew, he wanted to just think of what he would be when this was over. But the other option was to risk missing such a glorious and wonderous thing; you growing fat with his child, and that he couldn't allow. He was missing much as it was, having to siege and handle so much on his own. At least this way, when we returned to his vessel you were there waiting.

And Throne your smile and gentle touches kept his soul from becoming cold like the rest of him. You kept him human, what part of him that was. However, he could sense something dark overtaking you. The light in your beautiful eyes seemed dulled. A nasty malaise was taking you.

Wanting to rectify his lack of knowledge in the area of reproduction Perturabo delved head first into all knowledge he could find. The Lord of Iron will not fail at any task, especially being a good partner to the woman giving such a gift! He knew of the hormonal changes, and what they bring, but he had no idea they would be this bad. How your mind turned against you and him!

Perturabo was sure there was some comparison to be made about creating and nurturing life and doing such for creativity, but he would not simplify the sheer wonder you were doing.

He had been away a week, and last he saw you, this cloud was growing over your head, and he wished nothing more but to return to you and vanquish such thing with the appropriate amount of affection, within reason of course. Oh, how he wanted nothing more than to touch you, feel every new curve. The primarch growled and barked demanding the rites of removing his armor move quicker, he did not have time for the tech priests to be so lazy in their tasks. Sending one into a wall made his point clear enough.

As he entered his chambers, Perturabo could feel his cold and unrelenting demeanor start to melt. His footfall was not as heavy and angry. His jaw was not clenched. Even his anger about getting out of his armor faded. A thought occurred to him, his rage; outbursts, would he lash out at his grand creation? On the great design that brought it into this world? You? A sickening fear.

The Lord of Iron looked down at his hands stopping short of his bedroom door. What expectations would he push? No, he couldn't. Wouldn't. The babe would be flawed, weak and cry, and he would love it. No one but you ever made him feel seen and he would return that love to you tenfold and he would make sure his child would not have the same pathetic childhood he had. His child would have one, where he had none.

Done lingering in his thoughts, he cracked his door open, hoping to find you reading in bed or playing with one of the many puzzles he had made for you. But what he saw was your naked form before a large mirror. He wasn't one for such vanity things, but he got it for you, and he did like looking over and seeing how breath-taking you were being taken by him.

Sadly, the rising heat in his chest quelled quickly when he noticed you were crying. A mix of fear and rage took him, were you injured? Who hurt you?! He would raze his own ship to find out. Destroy all his sons for this grave mistake!

"My great treasure, why are you crying?" he asked, trying to keep his mounting fear and anger contained; hidden.

You turn with a start, how did a man so large manage to go unnoticed? More the fool you were, and further proved the malicious thoughts in your head. You were flawed, stupid, gross. Not only physically unsightly now, but what little intelligence you had, faded.

"Perturabo!" you shriek, frantically reaching for your robe to cover your body.

The primarch frowned, "Why do you cover yourself? No need for modesty, I have seen this finely crafted gift to me before." he mused trying to raise your spirits, assessing you were not injured physically at least, and did not seem ill.

When you lower lip quivered and you flinched at his words, like they wounded you, his hearts sank and knotted. The mental darkness that had been seeping into you had worsened it seemed. Curse this crusade and the damnable jobs his father sent him on. You should be planetside on Olympia with him living a life of sunshine and ease, while he worked on the nursery. He should be creating while you created the greatest thing of all.

"Please do not lie to me, Perturabo." you whimper so meekly he wasn't sure a baseline would have heard or understood.

Perturabo closed the gap between you two, gingerly taking a knee before you and taking a hand into his, "I do not lie, you know this. What have I said to make you think such? Tell me, so I can fix this."

He waits as you try to collect your breath and steady yourself to speak, "I am not pleasing anymore," you sob, your body trembling violently from your cries, "My body is bent and ugly. It is why you won't love me anymore!"

Oh. Oh Throne take him. It would seem the standards he pushed onto himself and his gene-sons had made this illness worse. Not to mention his information about expecting mothers and sex was now painfully clear to be incorrect. Here he thought he was doing what you desired, and instead, he made you feel undesirable.

With all the gentlness he could muster Perturabo guided your hands down and thus the robe exposing your body to him once more. He could feel how uneasy you felt. his own wife thinking she was not worthy of him, or his touch? This was a grave insult he had cast upon you and it hurt more than any torture or wound.

"Bent and ugly?" He repeated in a murmur, "How so?" his fingers trace your stretch marks, and his kisses your belly, "I see something so marvelous it takes my breath away. I see the woman who is offering her body to create something so beautiful and precious with me. Oh, I think there is nothing more beautiful in all creation." he mused planting more kisses on your belly, smiling as he does.

"I quite like these marks, shows how enduring and strong you are. No simple woman could carry my children! Only the right one; you," he kissed up your bump and his lips grazed over your milk-swollen breasts, "As for love making. Again I have failed, not you. I was under the impression sex would be...unpleasant for you right now and I did not wish to hurt you or the babe. Nor make you do something you would not enjoy..."

The primarch took one of your tender nipples into his mouth, and when your whimpers turned to moans that fire in his chest roared back to life and consumed his body. He dearly missed hearing that sound, been dying to have you make such music for months.

"My diamond, my great treasure, let your foolish husband fix this. I long to work your body, to meld into you." he cooed as he moved up your chest and neck.

As you moan his name his lips catch yours and you melt into his embrace. You felt foolish for doubting his love, but he would not give you time to be upset over it; already he was carrying you to bed, his eyes hungry and blown out.

"Not to be heretical, but allow this arrogant man to worship at your alter," the primarch rumbled as he hovered over you, his lips kissing over your body, leaving little fires where his lips touched, "And I will be gentle."

You didn't reply, merely whimpered his name, and rocked your hips as your lips begged for his; wanting his fire inside you. By all that was good, you had been craving this for months. Perturabo chuckled breaking a kiss, "I do not think I have been so pleased in all my years to have someone so needy for me. Do not worry, my wife, I will make up for my error."

[dragon-watcher03]

I like when ppl write their own version of mk intros, so I shall request those. I don't have any specific idea for reader's backstory so I'd love to see what you come up with o/

Thx for the motivation, you gave me a brilliant idea-

Mk1 x Gn! Doom God! Reader

Note: Reader uses mini scythes connected via chains as a Krucible and has armour more like those from Halo. Implied Doom Slayer x reader.

Ft. Liu Kang, Johnny Cage, Raiden, Kitana, Shang Tsung

Liu Kang: You are a God in your realm?

You: I'd rather go with Slayer, but yes.

Liu Kang: The fact that your realm's Seraphims see you as nothing but a weapon... doesn't sit right with me.

You: Why? It is my sole purpose.

Liu Kang: Slaying demons for many decades must have been challenging.

You: Less challenging, more soul-draining.

You: I do not intend to stay here long, Lord Liu Kang.

Liu Kang: At least grant me one last spar?

You: There is another like me, but he is a lot less talkative.

Liu Kang: I have no doubt that he is as honorable as you.

You: The humans in this world are very different than the ones back at home...

Liu Kang: How so?

Johnny Cage: So, what exactly are you the God of?

You: I am no God, but people have no better words to describe me.

Johnny Cage: C'mon, you and your buddy would totally fit in a first-person shooter!

You: I have better demons to fight than Paparazzi, Cage.

Johnny Cage: So, this buddy of yours, he anything other than just your partner in crime?

You: Even if we were, I wouldn't tell you.

You: I have no time for trivial things like "love".

Johnny Cage: Sheesh, talk about workaholic.

You: I know what you're going to ask, and no, you can't hold my Krucible.

Johnny Cage: Y'know if you weren't such a buzzkill, I'd totally tap that.

You: Do you get anything out of flirting with me?

Johnny Cage: The possibility of courting a Goddess/God.

Raiden: Your people see you as a God?

You: Yeah, they even made a whole religion based on us.

Raiden: This other "Doom God" you speak of, he sounds like a ruthless man.

You: Oh trust me, he is.

Raiden: Is it foolish of me to request a spar with a demon-killing God?

You: Don't worry, I'll be gentle.

You: That amulet you have is fascinating...

Raiden: As is that weapon of yours.

You: Ashrah is a Demon? She looks so human compared to the ones back at home.

Raiden: Whatever monsters you deal with at home, I can assure you she is nothing like them.

You: Are you sure you want to meet him?

Raiden: When you speak so highly of him, how can I not?

Kitana: The war you fight sounds worse than Outworlds.

You: I pray this universe will never experience such a war...

Kitana: I feel like you and my sister would get along well.

You: I take from the way you say that, that it's a compliment.

Kitana: The humans of your world call you "Ruin God"?

You: They are so creative, aren't they?

You: I must say, you were right about getting along with Mileena.

Kitana: The blood coating your armour seems to prove so.

You: I have been alive for so long with the mind of a human, that I started to forget who my parents were...

Kitana: I'm... sorry to hear that, Ruin.

You: I hoped to not get attached to any of you to make my departure easier.

Kitana: laughs Guess that didn't work out so well, did it?

Shang Tsung: Well, aren't you a fine specimen.

You: Back off you cretin, or you'll see why we are called Gods.

Shang Tsung: I could set you and your partner free from the shackles of being weapons for your world.

You: And be yours instead? I'd rather serve the Seraphims.

Shang Tsung: We could have been such a powerful couple, you and I.

You: I already have a stronger and better suitor, sorcerer.

You: You are worse than the demons back at home...

Shang Tsung: Oh~ feeling feisty now are we?

You: You are playing with forces beyond your power, sorcerer.

Shang Tsung: Then let's play~

You: You look horrible. Did you finally meet him?

Shang Tsung: Tch, how you two have such power for mere humans is beyond my comprehension.

[dinoace2]

For @hg-aneh , this comic they made :]

Bit of a different take, this time, what if it wasn't just that he didn't talk, but he couldn't?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a shitty day.

All the days had been shitty.

Aziraphale had lost count how many there had been so far, and rain doesn't exist in Heaven. But clouds massing over Soho suggested that the newest thunderstorm was on its way, and it was going to be a big one.

Earlier...

"No, no, please, you can't do this!" Aziraphale thrashed about, trying to loose the grip of the Powers who held onto each of his arms. One on either side, holding tight to ensure he couldn't move.

Uriel sneered at him, their eyes flaring with anger. "I already told you once, Aziraphale. You ask too many questions. Supreme Archangel or not, there still remain standards that must be met. Lines that cannot be crossed."

Aziraphale frowned. "It still seems quite reasonable to me to demand why! The very idea of creating Humanity, just to destroy it, it's...well, it's senseless! Sure, they've made mistakes, but they don't deserve utter annihilation for it! And they definitely don't deserve it if the only reason is 'the Almighty has grown bored of Her little social experiment'! That logic is, quite frankly, nothing short of childish and ridic- !"

One of the other angels cut him off with a knee to the stomach. He winced, letting out a huff of air as he sank to his knees.

"Thats enough!" Michael frowned. "I'm not sure what the Metatron saw in you before, but I'm glad He finally came to His senses." She leaned down, inches from his face. "I've half a mind to strike you down where you stand, traitor."

"S-surely," Aziraphale whispered, his voice hoarse. "Surely, this can't be what She wants. This can't be Her will."

“You don't have the right to suggest what She wants.” Michael scowled. “such blasphemy begs execution.”

“I think you and I both know what happened the last time you tried.” Aziraphale managed a smirk. 

“We're well aware, thank you.” She huffed. “we had to get creative this time around, I hate to say.” She waved a hand. “Uriel!”

She stepped aside as the other archangel approached, some sort of weapon in hand. They raised their arm to strike, and Aziraphale flinched, his eyes shut tight.

…

He paused. Wasn't something supposed to happen? He opened his eyes, only to find Uriel already putting their weapon away. 

What happ- he paused. His mouth had opened, his lips formed the words, but…he didn't say anything. No sound came out.

He tried again, getting the same result. Michael chuckled. “A fitting consequence for the angel who talked too much, no?” she waved to the angels on either side of him. “You know what to do.”

Aziraphale struggled in their grasp as they dragged him away, far past the point of no return.

~~~

It burns...

It's so cold, but it burns...

Aziraphale wasn't sure how long he'd been falling.

He felt infernal wind flying around him, whipping in his hair and tearing through his feathers. It was completely dark, he couldn't see anything. The only reason he knew which way was down was because thats the direction he was going.

Hellfire lashed at him as he Fell, flicking at his clothes, his skin, his wings.  Every burst of flame stung with a flash of icy, searing pain that burned deep into his soul.

He wanted to cry out, to scream, to call for something, anything, but when his mouth opened he was still trapped in the same empty, maddening silence as if he had done nothing at all.

He wondered if this was how Crowley felt when he Fell; freezing, burning, hurting...alone. Thinking through everything that led him here. Wondering if he did the right thing. Wondering if there was anything else he should have done, anything else he could have done, to possibly have changed what he now faced.

Crowley...

What would he say, when he saw Aziraphale like this? What would he do? Would he even do anything? Would he glare down at him? Say 'I told you so'? Grin and laugh? Or maybe he'd just walk away, not even dignifying a response. Aziraphale wouldn't even blame him for that, considering how he left things. Whatever Crowley decided to do, it was definitely going to be deserved.

He put a hand to his throat, realizing that, whatever happened, he wouldn't be able to say anything. Wouldn't be able to explain himself, or say anything that he wanted to, or... he paused, then hugged himself. For the rest of eternity, no matter how much he may want to, no matter how hard he'd try, he would never be able to tell Crowley those three bloody words that he'd always wanted to say. Those three blasted words that had been on the tip of his tongue for millenia. Those three damned words that he should have said before.

But...even if he said them now...there was no guarantee (or, at this point, no chance) that Crowley would accept it, surely. Not after everything he did...after everything that happened.

  He hugged himself, pulling his knees to his chest, and choked on a silent sob. Everything hurt, he felt confused and scared and ruined. All he felt he could do was fall, and wait for the crash.

~~~

Aziraphale's eyes opened. He didn't know where he was. He didn't know what he was. He felt nothing at all. But at the same time he felt everything…and it all hurt. His lungs burned and his eyes stung. A cloud of ash lingered around him, smothering the nearby air and nearly making him choke.

He wanted to curl up, to cry, to never move again. He felt like he couldn't move, yet still that he had to. His face hardly moved, his expression limp and exhausted and miserable. In all fairness, that's exactly how he felt. Nothing. 

He gathered what strength he had and pulled himself to sit up, looking around. His skin stung with burns and his eyes couldn't quite focus. His fingers curled in coarse, sharp, black sand beneath him, and waves lapped at his feet. A burnt smell came from the bubbling ‘water’. Sulfur…? It looked like some sort of…infernal beach.

He got to his feet, brushing the sand off his coat and beginning to walk. Hell's offices must not be far from here.

Sure enough, after walking for a while he made it to a dim-lit building, greenish light spilling out of the few windows. Heaven's basement, indeed.

When Aziraphale opened the doors, all went suddenly still and silent. All eyes fell on him. The cramped crowds parted as he walked past, perhaps out of recognition, perhaps out of fear. He stopped one demon on his way, asking for directions by simply pointing a finger up.

~~~

The clouds overhead were dense and dark, nearly blotting out the natural sunlight of the late afternoon. Thunder rolled in the distance, deep and low, a promise of the storm that was to come.

A distinct ding echoed in the empty Soho street corner, and a cloud of ash spilled out onto the sidewalk.

As if to gather what dignity he had left, Aziraphale straightened his coat, straightening the wrinkles in the fabric, and approached A.Z. Fell and Co. The first raindrops of the oncoming tempest splashed against the pavement.

He hesitated as he reached for the door. The bookshop was an embassy after all. Demons aren't allowed to pass without permission...would he even be able to go inside his own- well...not his anymore - home? His fingers clasped around the doorknob and gently turned it, breathing out a sigh of relief when nothing stopped him.

The familiar chime of the doorbell was almost comforting as he stepped inside, but relief was quick to be replaced by regret.

It was dark. The lights were all out, the shades all drawn. The shop looked untouched, and while ordinarily that would be a good thing, not like this. Everything was covered in a visible layer of dust. He swiped his finger on the till counter, carving a revealed line of clean wood beneath the soft gray film. Not just untouched, but abandoned.

You poor thing...wasn't Muriel supposed to look after you?

Among the stagnant, silent scenery, a mop of long red hair was draped across a table. The body slumped beneath it stirred at the sound of the doorbell. Golden eyes blinked slowly, adjusting to the shift in lighting.

Aziraphale stood still, saying nothing, doing nothing. What happened to you? How long was I gone? How long have you been alone? His mind raced with questions that he couldn't voice.

Once he noticed the figure in front of him, Crowley was quick to sit upright, eyes wide. "Oh..." Frantic emotions of all natures flashed across his expression as he tried to determine whether the sight before him was really and truly there.

"Oh!"

He got to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well! Look who bothered to show up!" A sharp grin took over his face as he sauntered up to the visitor. "The Supreme Asshat of Heaven, dirtying his clean little shoes to come and laugh  at the pitiful, sad demon." His voice came out as a hiss, laced with bitter sarcasm and poorly-disguised sadness. Aziraphale didn't move, didn't respond. He couldn't.

I'm so sorry, dear…is that what you think ive been feeling? What I've been up to? Why would I ever mock you, I could never-

Crowley put his hands up and spoke in a mocking tone. “‘Ooh, poor Crowley, he must be feeling so pathetic, all alone’.” He grinned wider, his arms flat at his sides. “Well. The joke's on you. I'm better than ever on my own. Just me. A team of Myself.” He stepped forward once more, blinking away tears. “I don't need you!”

Aziraphale just looked at him, part of his mind wondering if this new form could cry.

Inches away from his face, Crowley nearly shouted, “So tell me, Angel, why did you come back?! Why are you here, Aziraphale?!”

With a shaky breath and a whoosh of feathers, Aziraphale answered his question. It…seemed the easiest way to communicate, considering the circumstances. Thunder cracked outside, a flash of light through the windows highlighting the jet-black wings from behind. He could do nothing but watch, as the color drained from Crowley's face.

“You….you-” he was still for a moment, quiet and shaky. His anger seemed to shift, still present but no longer directed at Aziraphale. “You idiot!” He launched forward and grabbed Aziraphale by his jacket’s lapels. “Why, Aziraphale?! Why did you leave?! Why did you go back?! Why?” He finally choked on a sob, collapsing against Aziraphale's chest. “Why, Angel…why…why…” He dissolved into broken cries, sinking to his knees as he begged for answers.

Oh, Crowley…

They sat in silence for a long while, Aziraphale unsure of what to do. He certainly couldn't say anything.

When Crowley's sobs slowed to soft whimpers, the angel stepped back. Crowley looked up at him, confusion in his gaze.

Aziraphale took a breath, then recited the simple, memorized steps in his head. Stepped forward with one hand up and the other on his hip, kicked his leg back and lifted his arms, spun around on one foot, and ended in a bow. You were right, you were right, I was wrong, you were right. He sunk down on the bow, propping himself on one knee and keeping his head low.

Crowley was silent, his jaw slack as he processed what just happened. 

“...Angel-”

He reached up, gently holding Aziraphale's cheek with one hand. Aziraphale closed his eyes, leaning into the demon's touch.

“...say something…please…” He whispered, leaning closer.

‘I can't,’ Aziraphale mouthed, trying to gesture to his neck. ‘I'm sorry.’

Crowley paused, nodding slightly. He seemed to understand. He pulled him close, pressing their foreheads together. “...Heaven took it from you…didn't they.” It was more of a statement than a question. When Aziraphale nodded, he sighed. “Those angels and their ‘poetic justice’, huh? They…they think they have the right to take everything…I get it. I've been there. Though I'm sure you know that already, heh.” He smiled weakly, and he felt a silent chuckle shake in Aziraphale's chest.

“...im glad you came back,” Crowley whispered. “I…im sorry how I acted…what I said, when you left…a-and…the…the kiss, i…im so sorry…I wish it had happened under better circumstances…or…maybe even just…never at all, I…I just…you…” his rambling trailed off, as Aziraphale cupped his face in both hands, gently lifting his chin.

The little space between them closed, their lips falling together as both demons desperately clung to one another, their only lifeline in an otherwise empty world. This wasn't like the last one. The last one was a plea to stay…this one was a promise. 

Tears finally fell down Aziraphale's cheeks, stinging his skin as he pulled Crowley closer still. He pressed kisses to his lips, his cheek, along his jaw, anywhere he could reach. He mouthed what he couldn't say against Crowley's skin, three words over and over, whispered silently wherever he touched. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Crowley pulled away, if only to breathe for a moment. “Aziraphale…” He wiped at the tears on his cheeks with his thumbs.

He hugged him, pulling him into a tight embrace. “my offer still stands, you know…our side…together. Just us…if- if you're interested, I mean. I…I know, it…sounds lonely…but…nothin’ wrong with being lonely together, is there?” He offered a weak smile. 

Aziraphale smiled, a real, true smile for the first time since getting on that bloody elevator oh-so-long ago, nodding as he clung tightly to his other half.

Together. Our side. As long as we have each other.

~~~~~~~~~

Thanks for reading! :]

[thewriteblrlibrary]

A Step-by-Step Marketing Guide so we can spite traditional publishers (and make people cry).

~ This is a guide specific for fiction/writeblr. All of this is for free and there is little social media posting/ads involved (unless you want to venture into that). ~

Within the writeblr spheres, there's this underlying hope that our stories will find their audience. Perhaps we'll have a fandom full of fanart and video essays, or maybe we'll be an instant classic and sit on collectors' beloved bookshelves. Our stories could sit within the deepest corners of someone's heart and maybe they never tell a soul about what's so special to them. Maybe our stories become those 'underrated masterpieces'.

Or we just want to see people ugly cry over our writing.

Whatever your hope may be, marketing is an important path to venture on (especially because traditional publishers are rejecting diverse books in favor of ones that are already famous + the whole sub-par machine thing they seem obsessed with.)

And thus, my childhood marketing obsession will hopefully be of use to you. This is all for free (unless you want to spend money) and you don't need to figure out social media platforms (unless you want to, and this guide works if you decide to take that route too.)

Step One: Characters

Marketing spheres will define these fictious people as 'avatars' or 'the target audience'. You could also call them characters. Because that's what they are: fictional people.

For this step, you shall create characters that would love your story.

And here's some great news: You've already done this.

Perhaps you wrote your story to comfort a prior version of yourself. Perhaps each character in your story holds an aspect of your personality. Perhaps you were ridiculously self-indulgent and made the story you would've loved to read. These are all possible characters you can reuse for marketing.

Write down 2-4 quick archetypes for these characters. You'll chose an aspect of your story (characters, themes, or the younger-self that you wrote it for) and write a thumbnail sketch. (Main issue, fears, wants, personality traits if they relate to the main issue.)

I'll do it for my story (the Land of the Fallen Fairies) down below:

Anuli-like (my MC): Overthinking and aloof. Wants a happy ending but thinks their current personality/character isn't good enough for one. The present stales in comparison to the past/the childhood they lost. The 'gifted theater kids'. Kamari-like (side character): Postpones happiness in favor of creating a perfect schedule/getting accomplishments. Heavy masking. Creative but doesn't create anymore. Promises themself they'll enjoy themselves later, when they've earned it. Workaholics. My younger self: Wanting a fantasy escapism to embody the traits they wish they had in real life. Dissatisfied and worried about reality. Perfectionists. Self-indulgent: People who love plants and forests and fantasy worlds far away from reality/humanity.

Great! Now it's time to find these characters.

Step Two: Setting.

(Let's assume you're using the internet for your marketing. But a similar method works for real life too.)

Where do the characters live?

In order to figure that out, we need to discover the characters' interests, what they watch to solve their problems, and who they find #relatable.

(You can do this for each character or for all the characters at once.)

For example:

Anuli-like -

interests: Stories. Analysis videos. Fantasy escapism. Things that remind them of their childhood. (so nature, warmth, comfort, play, imagination and the times they would actually enjoy learning.)

Places to look: Nature quotes, ambience videos, children's shows and fairytales (comfort shows). Fandom culture - fanfic video essays, fan art.

Solving problems (the problem being wanting a 'happy ending' but feeling that their personality/lifestyle/characteristics aren't right for one): Mindfulness things. Self-healing. Quotes and meditations and candles galore. Slow living. Nature vlogs. Self care. All that 'live in the moment' culture.

Places to look: Slow living. Nature vlogs. The 'softer self-help' (spirituality stuff. Magic/ overnight answers). Witchcraft. 'aesthetic nature' places. Guided meditations.

#relatable: Burnt out gifted kids. People who think so much that their life passes them by. Storytellers and creative who create to make sense of the world. People who like dark, gory things in spite of who they want to be. People who don't like reality.

Places to look: Those 'learn better and remember everything' places. (The 'burnt-out gifted kid' recovery places.) Stop overthinking spots. Those quotes on Pinterest from poetic people who think too much /aff. Storyteller places. Dark academia. Classical music. One off quotes/ poetry.

Okie dokie. Once you have this, find channels, social media accounts, blogs, songs, books, etc. that fit with the categories you wrote down. (They should appeal to the characters) You can search up some of the terms you listed into searches and see who pops up. Bonus points if you find people that overlap with multiple sections.

I know I didn't include booktube or booktok in here. You can if you want too. But those can be a bit... 'consume these 500 books'. You also want to find other places where people who would like you story live, even if they don't follow booktube or booktok.

Congrats! Now you know where your characters live!

Step Three: the scary part

Take everyone you found on your search for the settings and write them down a list. Make sure you get an email/contact info. (they usually list them somewhere under 'for business inquires') Also feel free to watch their content and get to know what attributes these settings have.

And now... we talk to them. about our stories. You can do it. I believe in you.

This called 'pitching your product' in marketing spheres. But you can be informal about it.

I know it can be difficult to talk about your work, so here's a tone to have:

'I made this thing I like and I think you'll like it too'.

What you'll do is send an email (or dm) that goes like this (inspired by Creative Hive on youtube):

Hi [name],

[Genuine compliment]

[Quick sentence or two about your story. Include the themes and who it appeals to. If you have a logline/sentence summary, include that. But I find that the underlying themes and 'who's it's for' is more engaging.

For my story, I might say something like.

I've written a story you might enjoy, since you like [interest]. It's called the Land of the Fallen Fairies. It's a nature-themed commentary on the pursuit of happiness and fixing yourself to deserve that happiness, told by an overthinking, unreliable, houseplant narrator. It was supposed to comfort me when I got frustrated with myself and my happiness chasing, and I hope it can comfort others too.

(That's probably a bit long and I can trim it down a bit.)

You can phrase it like a gift if you want too.]

[Call to action.

'If you like it, I'd appreciate a mention on your [platform].

I know this part may be difficult to mention (imposter syndrome is not fun.) But I promise that if they do like it, they'll be happy to mention it.]

If they don't respond within... four-ish days? (A week at most). then you can include a follow up. For this you can include a template with info about your story. This way it's easy for them to talk about your story.

The template:

title

genre

blurb

Author

where to find the book

Bonus points if you have an additional, physical thing to send them.

Congrats! Now do this pitching process a few times until you've covered most of your bases. (Pitch to as many people as you can. It will get more comfortable as you do it. Play your favorite song and don't let yourself think too hard about it.)

----------

The benefits of this process are that you find people that are already interested in the themes and vibes of your story (in comparison to to ads, which get shoved in everyone's faces.). Someone your audience already trusts will talk about it, which means you don't need to do all this trial and error to find your audience and make content for them.

It's basically a bunch of people talking about something they like!

AND you diversify your audience across niches, but with an underlying theme/interests. Booktok/booktube must appeal to everyone, so it's a hit or miss for recommendations. (Unless there is someone that specifically does one genre/type of story.)

From here you can do fun little things to build up hype and make the book launch feel like this fun event. (I love it when that happens so here's my thoughts about trying to create an event with your story... although that may require another post entirely.)

preorder goals

charity goals

Arg's and puzzles

fund with side plushies and trinkets

Book blog tour

book boxes

as many memes as you can make

rewards (like bookmarks or posters or smth) that people can get for supporting

Talk about the process of creating your story. I know this one channel called 'Dead Sound' that creates 'making of' videos for his short films and they are some of the best videos on youtube.

Okay dear storyteller! Now go forth and share your story with the world!

Additional resources:

Creative Hive <-- a youtube channel that goes through the pitching process.

This video is also very good <-- Haven't watched the rest of the channel but I assume it's also good.

One of the best marketing channels on the internet (the videos are actually entertianing to watch.

Seth Goldin <-- I read his book and took the parts I liked and modified for storytelling marketing.

Dead Sound <-- propaganda to watch the short film series he has (he did the whole 2-d 3-d style wayyyy before spiderverse did... and he's one person making these. One person. It's amazing.

Glitch <--- If someone can figure out how The Amazing Digital Circus was marketed then I will pay you money. It seems to be a lot of memes and funny things.

[phoenixcatch7]

Wayne doll house: demon children.

Idea: each of the batkids is theorised to have a different origin.

Thing is, there's so many of them. The oldest is actually the youngest in body. It seems to be able to share memories with those who follow. It changes design right before a new bat appears.

The hero in the town over is definitely one of them, but what's it doing over there?? Asking just gets non-answers.

What happened to the ones that the Joker tried to destroy? One - the oldest and smallest - came back, but different, whereas the other - the purple and orange one - came back for a while and then vanished again for good.

None of them seem to age??

The first, smallest, oldest, it seemed to be some sort of circus performer? It gave its acrobatics to the blue one when it arrived, grew clever and defensive. It gave that to the skull headed red one, focused on technology and detective work after the Incident. Then again, and again, and one time even the bat changed along with it, but though the bat returned to normal the little Robin didn't, and now it's just as stabby and creative as it is small and creepy.

It's a good sort of creepy now, after over a decade of beating up bad guys and comforting victims, Gotham has gotten used to it, but outsiders don't much like it.

The justice league have a different opinion.

They know, or at least can observe, that the... Souls? Brains? Programs? Switch around, that it's not memories but persons that bring the new bats to life.

They just don't know where batman gets them. The new one, especially, is very circumspect.

For all this talk of the blood son, all the bats calling it demon child with varying levels of fondness, the way batman doesn't deny the claims...

Thing is the bat doesn't have blood. Everyone's well aware of this by now. Whatever sulpheric black tar he and the bats leak probably-certainly isn't blood, or at least... Not anything with dna.

So... What blood?? If not the bat's, why does it tie the newest mind of Robin to him?

Captain marvel is the first to think of an idea.

A blood child of a demon for a blood ritual for a demon.

Constantine and Zatanna second the notion - it's perfectly possible. Reasonable, even. The bat admitted himself he had no way to procreate the way humans did, nor any interest in doing so. Wanting a legacy was perfectly normal.

Except he already had, what, seven, eight, nine kids? He loved all of them, it was clear, and he'd always seemed happy with them. He'd even sighed over how many he had, had rebuffed the teasing about getting more. The new Robin mind had been a surprise to everyone, and the old one in a new body had been a little salty about it.

So the new theory was that batman hadn't decided to get a new Robin. Maybe the old mind had been ejected unwillingly! It had happened at roughly the same time batman had gotten a new personality - maybe the incidents were related?

But if batman hadn't done the ritual... Who had?

Who would do something like that???

Cultists. Cultists would do something like that. But giving the bat a son unwillingly seemed... A very odd goal, even for that type.

So... Had they messed up? Had they tried to summon the bat with a blood sacrifice ritual, and summoned a demon instead? Had it partially worked? Was the bat susceptible to demon summonings?? Did the summoning damage his own mind/consciousness/soul in some way, and that led to the creation of the new demon child while the bat changed until he'd healed????

How kind of batman to take it in!

Tldr; the league thinks Robin V is a demon born/created through a failed summoning ritual involving blood sacrifice that made batman like puns until he healed. The truth is the canon events of Damian arriving at the manor only for b to get tossed into the time stream, becoming the Robin to nightwing-batman while Tim, who is much less annoyed about it than canon, focuses on getting him back. Lmao.