#persona asphalt

[m0e-ru]

i got tired

[stellayuta]

Racing Hearts! - F1 Driver! Gojo Satoru (A LOTG spinoff)

synopsis: Ferrari sensation Gojo Satoru dominates headlines and social media with his unmatched driving prowess and intriguing personal life. Yet, beneath the surface, Gojo harbors a secret that could shake up the F1 world. An unrelenting F1 journalist, determined to unearth the truth, becomes his unexpected adversary—one who might finally expose the enigma that is Gojo Satoru.

content: formula one x jujutsu kaisen, eventual enemies to lovers, angst, themes of isolation, mental health themes, swearing

author's note: I've decided that we all deserve F1 Gojo as much as we deserved F1 Yuta. Hope the jjk and formula one fans enjoy this. This will be much more drama packed than LOTG. Keep following along!

word count: 2k

When the strongest roars across the asphalt, the crowd sees burning red

-

Satoru Gojo lounges lazily on his plush, red velvet, king-sized bed, eyeing his mail with curiosity. He holds a dainty pink envelope up to the light, squinting to make out the words through the paper screen. Carefully, he tears it open, revealing a letter and a photograph: a glossy snapshot of one of his closest friends and fellow drivers, Yuta Okkotsu. Yuta, dressed in a sleek, emerald tuxedo, is smiling dreamily at his fiancée, who is cradled in his arms in a princess carry. They look good, Gojo thinks. Yuta has regained his glow over the past year; in fact, he seems to have put on a few pounds of healthy weight.

Gojo fishes out the letter next. Dyed a flowery shade of baby pink similar to the envelope and stamped with red words, it reads: We are getting married, and you are invited!

Bummer. He was 99.9% sure he'd be asked to officiate. But alas.

He shakes his head comically as he reads further.

"Kindly do not bring any gifts, only your blessings. If you feel like gifting something, please donate to a charity of your choice!"

Tacky much. If he were in their place, he definitely would have asked for extravagant gifts. But given how Yuta's brain works and how much his fiancée mirrors him, Gojo isn't surprised in the slightest.

What does surprise him though is the last line in the letter, highlighting the best man and the maid of honor. The best man isn't his mates from his early racing days, Geto or Gojo. But Inumaki...

"Seriously, Okkotsu?" Gojo gawks at the letter dramatically and then shoves it away from him. Must be nice. To have a small circuit of friends, a good team, a hot fiancée, a quiet, successful life.

Must be nice.

He skeptically eyes the collection of trophies that decorate the wall opposite to his bed. Some golds from Melbourne, Suzuka, Sao Paolo, Silverstone. A few silvers and bronzes from the American and Asian legs. No driver's championship yet.

Gojo joined Ferrari at just 20 years old as their golden boy, and now, after eight years with the team, he had experienced many successful runs—but never a victory. He had finished second six times until Okkotsu entered the scene and began dominating the field, pushing him to third in the championship standings. Despite his outwardly charismatic and confident persona, the pressure of failing to deliver Ferrari their long-awaited win gnawed at him like a thousand needles.

The prince of Ferrari was yet to become their king. But perhaps, the prince will never grow up enough to be a king.

He tries to shoo the depressing thoughts away. There is no time for depression during the long-awaited summer break.

He needed to get out of the house, that would do the trick.

Gojo swings his legs out of bed, stretching lazily as his bare feet sink into the soft, imported carpet beneath him. His house, perched on a hill overlooking the sparkling Mediterranean Sea, is a gleaming example of his lavish lifestyle in Monaco. The sleek, modern architecture—glass walls, sharp lines, and white stone—gives it a futuristic edge. Even the driveway has an air of luxury, with its tasteful selection of Italian sports cars parked under the evening sun.

The dusk is warm, the salty breeze from the sea cutting through the air, ruffling his silver hair and putting on his sunglasses as he steps out of the front door.

*ka-chick*

"Huh?" Gojo's ears perk up and he looks around to see where the sound came from. Usually, paparazzi hunt their prey in a herd. They are easily recognizable by their incessant catcalling, comments and the barrage of flash noise. Maybe this was a newbie or a paparazzo gone rogue. Gojo shrugs, strikes a pose or two for this invisible photographer and continues on his merry way.

He isn't in the mood for the clubs or the cabarets today. He mostly certainly would prefer a quiet, inconspicuous bar though. He is not much of a drinker, hell he won't even drink the champagne he pops on the podium - but a bar is a perfect place to be incognito. The dim ambience and drunk people - no one would notice him.

He almost passes a shoddy looking establishment and decides to enter it. To his massive relief, it is rather empty. There a blue LEDs lining the bar counter and the ceiling. There's about two couples snogging in the dark corners of the bar and a few lone souls scattered about, too drunk in their sorrows and the alcohol to look up.

So, it's that kind of place. It might be poetic for him to be there, satoru thinks.

Gojo settles into a dimly lit corner of the bar, reclining into the worn leather booth with a relaxed yet cynical smirk. His sunglasses, still perched on his nose despite the low light, reflect the faint blue glow from the LED strips. It’s not a place one would expect to find a Formula 1 superstar like him, and that’s exactly why he’s here. Tonight, he just wants to vanish.

He signals for the bartender, a gruff-looking man with a thick beard and tired eyes. “Vodka, neat,” Gojo says, voice low and lazy. The bartender nods and moves without a word, leaving Gojo to his thoughts.

As he waits, his mind circles back to Yuta. That damn wedding invitation. It shouldn’t bother him, but it does. Yuta Okkotsu—once the rookie he used to coach on the finer points of track politics—had come into his own. Not only was he dominating on the track, but now he was settling down, tying the knot, living the kind of balanced life that Gojo had never allowed himself to dream of. Gojo could dominate in any social setting, but in his private moments, he always felt like something was missing—like he was playing a role, never truly himself.

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Gojo pulls it out, half-expecting spam but instead, it’s a message from an unexpected friend.

Geto Suguru: Get the invite yet?

Gojo satoru: Sure did. Gonna go?

Geto Suguru: Well, of course. Won't you?

Gojo Satoru: I'm having second thoughts. After he picked Inumaki as his best man. What speech is Inumaki even going to give, I swear I've never heard him speak!

As Gojo waits for a reply, the bartender slides him a stout glass full of clear liquid, reeking of spirit. Gojo takes a small sip that burns his palate and throat. He never drinks, what was he thinking.

He tries savoring the bitter aftertaste and the buzz hitting his brain as he sees the shadows on his tables shift.

He looks up from under his sunglasses and stares at you who is blocking the light from reaching his table completely. His eyes narrow as he tries to make out your features through the dim, blue-lit haze of the bar. It takes him a second to register who it is, but when he does, his expression lights up, though the usual cocky grin doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Well, well, well..." He sings. "Look who's here."

You don't reply back and take a seat across him. The leather on your seat is cracking and reeks of smoke. Could Gojo have not picked a better place to sulk in.

His eyes crinkle at their edges as you notice a slight shift in his expression. He appears to be pitying you.

"Out for my blood again, you leech?" he asks flatly, taking another sip of his drink. You don't recall him being a drinker from your years worth of notes.

"There are better things to drink." you reply, matching his tone as the bartender appears at the table again.

"Ah, miss, anything for you?"

"A bloody mary, please."

"On your tab right, sir?" the bartender looks at Gojo.

"Hell to the NO!" He snaps. "Put her drink on her tab!"

The bartender grimaces at Gojo and leaves, mumbling.

"They'll think you're a monster. Couldn't even pay for his woman's drink?" You prod Gojo, trying to make him break.

"As if anyone would ever think I'd be dating you. Don't embarrass yourself. What do you want from me now?" Gojo demands, crossing his arms against his chest after removing his sunglasses. His piercing blue eyes refuse to look away from you.

"The people need to know... I need to do my job." you state.

"They know enough. They don't need to know any more."

You quickly bring out a notepad, a recorder and press record on it.

"Any comments regarding rumors surrounding your transfer?"

At that moment, you witness the color leaves Gojo's face.

"W-What transfer? I am unsure what you're insinuating here."

"The rumor mill says you will be leaving Ferrari soon due to unsatisfactory performance and unreasonable team strategy. I'll quote you, please say something."

"You can't put those words in my mouth, all of that is-"

Gojo clears his throat and realizes he's now screaming, almost upright on his chair. He sits back to down.

"I am dedicated to Ferrari and their mission to win for this rest of 2024. That's all. Thank you."

You swiftly stop recording and lean over the table.

"So, what after 2024?"

"It's none of your business."

"I told you... this is my job."

"Y/N." His voice softens. "It's been nearly 7 years now. Can you not find any other driver to stalk?"

"I'm fine even if you report about my personal life." He continues. "That's less stressful than all of this."

Gojo's eyes, once sharp with irritation, soften as he leans back in his chair. His posture relaxes slightly, though his fingers still tap impatiently against the glass in his hand. The tension in the air between the two of you is palpable—years of history, unresolved tension, and unspoken words that neither of you have ever truly addressed. His last remark lingers in the dim light of the bar.

“Seven years, huh?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “And yet, here we are. You, still the untouchable star, and me, still chasing after the story that no one else can seem to tell.”

Gojo chuckles, though it lacks the usual arrogance. “Untouchable star? More like a dimming one. I can see it in your eyes. You think this is it for me, don’t you? That I’m washed up. A wasted talent. You can write about all that.”

You don’t reply immediately, watching him instead. The Gojo sitting across from you is different from the man you first met seven years ago. He was all fire and flash back then, burning too bright to let anyone close. But now, the cracks in the façade are starting to show. The endless pressure, the failure to deliver Ferrari’s long-awaited championship, and the gnawing sense of inadequacy have worn him down, whether he admits it or not.

“I don’t think you’re washed up,” you finally say, leaning back in your seat. “But I do think you’re scared.”

His blue eyes narrow slightly, the playful glint fading. “Scared? Of what?”

“Of what happens if you’re not the Satoru Gojo anymore. Of what happens when the lights go out, and the fans move on to the next rising star. What happens when you’re not Ferrari’s golden boy anymore?”

Gojo is speechless for a second after which he downs the remnants of his Vodka.

"I will resign before that happens." he declares.

"And you-" He gets up finally, covering the distance between you and him in a single stride, grabbing your jaw as he looks down at you.

"Move the hell on. It's been seven years. Get a life."

And with that, he pays for both of your drinks, takes his leave - the bar door chiming as it swings shut behind him.

"You are wrong Satoru." you whisper to yourself, letting go of the breath you were holding.

"Seven years. I have waited seven years for this."

You shimmy out your laptop from your bag and prop it open on the table. Quite a few curious eyes turn to see you.

*email sent!*

To be continued.....

[hatsukeii]

I think I'll be singing Velvet Ring on a microphone beaded with 'ex lovers' stickers and 'longing looks' beads. I've heard that Ushijima likes my music quite a bit~

too easy. the band you’ve joined is…

exes in my phone book / timeskip!ushijima wakatoshi x reader

genre(s): ex lovers to something?? something i guess?? pining, reminiscing, nostalgia fic tbh but ANGST ANGSTY ANGST WOO interpret the ending as you like because i kept it open for a reason

warning(s): slightly dysfunctional relationship dynamics kinda, lowkey suggestive at points, ushiwaka and reader were just young and stupid and in love but they couldn't seem to navigate it yknow, everything is also like somewhat/pretty ambiguous until the end but that's just how i like it

wc: ~1.7k

your first gig is… at a concert with your ex?!?!

setlist:

🎵velvet rings, big thief

🎵mayonaise, the smashing pumpkins

🎵black star, radiohead

There is a girl on a stage, who strums a pick through the strings of her acoustic guitar. A girl, whose lips hover just above the microphone that sits in a bracket, sighing into the cool metal for a final song. The people beside you have settled down, cheers and jumps reduced to swaying and mumbling.

You've been waiting for this song, haven't you?

The song strikes the ears first. The girl on stage, illuminated by a cone of light from above, sings of a night, thicker than a smoky fume. You mouth along to the lyrics, and your mind wanders to a place where your lungs are bloated, too full to carry anything more. A night beneath a buzzing streetlight, gravel that rolls and scrapes under the sweeping wind, ants that crawl onto the toecaps, under the soles, along the platforms of your unmoving shoes. A night of final breaths, and final words, and final sorrows. You're looking at the ground, your shadow muddied with the figure of another. You don't think he stares back at you. The ants keep crawling. They don't stop, even as you pivot away and leave your heart buried in the ground. The streetlight doesn't reach it again, but maybe it reaches his, still.

The faces around you hum along to a sequence, sway with the velvety strums of the girl's guitar, hold others tight against themselves. You stand alone amongst the crowd. You move when the rest of them will you to, only ever mouth to the lyrics, hold your hands close to your chest. You fear that your voice will give out if you try anything more.

"She's a beautiful performer, isn't she?"

The crowd does not shift their attention from the girl on the stage, so neither do you. She sings in gentle syllables of love, her heart pours out of her mouth. She longs for some fictitious persona, Ben, as her fingers play at the guitar like tugging the strings of a puppet. When you open your mouth, your heart is not there.

"She is. She really is." You respond to nothing but a sultry voice that finds its way into your ear canals.

The girl sings of a smoking gun, smoke that fizzles out from the barrel into night air, a bullet that falters at the end of its path to nothing in particular, a love that, for many nights before this, has begun to run dry. It's agonising, taunting, hopeful. It dies out in unanswered phone calls, drafted emails, text messages left unsent, collecting dust in a note-taking application. Words that ask a million questions.

Could we keep this going?

Is this really for the better?

Can't we try?

Why won't you just let me try?

"Why aren't you singing? It's the last song." The voice is anomalous amongst the crowd's united silence, his question stands out from those unsaid. He is too curious, yet for some selfish, twisted reason, you wish to indulge yourself. Wallow in sorrow. Take somebody else's beating heart to replace your own, that you buried beneath asphalt on a winter night of unasked questions turned two years of unspoken longing.

"For the same reason that you aren't, I'd assume." You silently hope he asks you for more.

The person huffs out a sigh, a short sigh that one lets out when they smile in defeat and surrender. He's close, his arm touching your own when he moves side to side with the crowd. His movement wills you to sway along. The girl on the stage sings of a gentle love, thick like a velvet ring. All encompassing, all powerful.

“Well, I once knew a person who loved this song.” He goes on. You stay silent, ears trained onto the words that paint golden silk and shimmering mist into the concert hall. A portrait of love that you have prayed to see once again, just out of grasp, but real enough to graze your fingers over. It sinks into your fingertips, takes you to a place where your hands could draw lines into tanned skin, hold onto a pair of strong arms, clasp together behind his broad shoulders. Beneath your feet, it travels to your ankles, wraps around your thighs, envelops you in a shroud of warmth. It comes in the form of his head laid in your lap after a long day, I love you mumbled into the flesh of your stomach in shaky sighs, calluses that roam every spot of skin on your body.

"Love really is a gentle thing, isn't it?" The lyrics are spoken out of your mouth naturally, like water running downstream in a creek. The person stays silent, you do the same. The girl's singing pierces through your ears to your throat, clawing at it as if to break it open and rescue something. He speaks before something can escape you.

"I haven't spoken to them since I left. Love is anything but gentle."

You wince, the girl's singing finally ripping through your windpipe. It doesn't stop there, to your surprise. It drills through to its final destination, and you grab the fabric of your shirt around your heart. You don't fully know the answer to your own question, but you believe in his despair. If love truly is gentle, it would have exited your chest when you screamed your throat hoarse for him to stay. It would have eased the pain, somehow. It would have sent your heart out to him even as he stood amongst giants, leagues greater than you. It would have sewn together your words, strung them into poems beautiful enough for him to say yes, I'll stay. I'll stay if you want, and I'll go if you want. Instead, you watch him on television every night, highlight reels, live volleyball matches. He left. You did not want him to.

"I haven't spoken to him since either. But I still think love is gentle. The painful kind."

The final chords of the song round off the set. The girl bows, and exits stage left. The crowd begins to loosen, yet the person's arm remains beside yours.

"Do you ever miss it?"

His number is still in your contacts. You struggle every night to hold off on pressing it. Your heart aches, and lights come on. You stare at an empty stage, and you envision yourself on it. Thousands of eyes watch you sing the song, yet you search the crowd for one pair only. You sing the words that you had once shown your love, a love that found you despite his duties, regardless of his glory, amidst his passion. You sing like you are begging for him to see you through the television, and turn around so the name Ushijima bares his face to you instead of his back. You cry out a story of a dying love, hanging onto frayed strings of memories and fear. The singing contorts into screaming at an empty crowd, as if your resolve could make Ushijima Wakatoshi find you again. You pretend to be his hands, hold yourself in your sleep. You hear his voice in your bed, on the streets, in front of you, behind you, beside you, even right here. You will never learn the lips of anyone else, not after his have taken you for himself. They feel like poison now, sinking into your veins from every part of your body that you inhibit. A poison that forces him into every corner of your life, and you are a fool enough to almost see him there.

"I want it gone, and I miss it all the same." You're crying now, and even your tears remind you of the love that taught you of its cruelty. You imagine a day when you wear another's ring on your finger, only to look up and see a blank face. There is no other.

"I think you should give him a call."

"I can't. I'd just hold him back."

"That's not true." His voice cracks, and his rebuttal is desperate, almost apologetic.

You turn to bid him farewell.

Ushijima is almost no different from how he was two years ago. But he's a little older now, a little taller too. His hair is the same olive green that used to run smooth between the webs of your hands. His voice is deep, rounder than it once was when he used to nip your earlobe and mutter professions of his love into your ear. You stare, but you don't know that he has been staring since halfway through the concert. You aren't seeing him through a television, he is no longer clad in a Schweiden Adlers jersey, his last name bears no weight here, in the space between the two of you. The days, and months, and years spent together come rushing into your head. A kiss on the forehead before separation, two pairs of feet running in wet sand that crumbles beneath their weight, sharing lunches in the silence of school rooftops, lips roaming every inch of each other on nights of longing. You, and Ushijima, and the pleads that lose their bodies when they fall back from your mouths and into your chests.

"Please, give me a call. Or a text. Or an email, I don't care. Just anything. I'm sorry."

"Goodbye, Ushijima."

You turn to leave, but you pull your phone out of your pocket to stare at his name in your contacts.

Ushijima watches your shrinking figure, all of his love trailing behind you, fading into smoke.

Your finger hovers above the red button that could end it all.

He can't seem to move, rooted into the ground of the now mostly empty concert hall. You are slipping away again, and he has learned from his mistake. He questions whether he's learned it a bit too late.

You turn off your phone, and shove it back into your pocket. He receives a text.

"I just want to take you home again."

author's note:

my sister gave me this idea a while ago and i just knew i had to make it so angsty sorry LOL she wanted a fluff ending but im the one with the document open so i can do what i WANT!! no i am actually very proud of this piece though and idk if this will get ANY exposure or interactions but just know that i really really loved writing this one

i also fear i lowkey forgot about longing looks and just went straight for longing…

also! song lyric references! if you catch them i'll give you a big fat kiss i love my music so much

anyways tags!!

@staraxiaa @catsoupki @chuuya-brainrot @hiraethwa @fiannee @bailey-reeds @4ngelfries @akaakeis @wyrcan @kuroppiii @zzwon

interested in joining a band? come on over to the build-a-band 900 !!

[afyrian]

AAA OMG THIS WRITING EVENT IS SO COOL WYR!!! I'M GOING TO TRY TO REQUEST THIS CORRECTLY BUT IF I NEED TO CLARIFY PLEASE LMK <3

i'm calling natasha romanoff bc there's a cat in a tree and we need some detectives with osamu please!!! <3

greasy dinner for two osamu miya x gn!reader (fluff) m.list | wc: 721 | prompts: private investigators + forced proximity

    your knuckle taps against an old sedan's window, the driver's side window tinted. a brown bag is held carefully in your hand, the top rolled up as a little bit of grease makes its way to the bottom. your other hand keeps a hold of a drink carrier, two coffees resting diagonal of each other. you tap your foot incessantly against the asphalt as you wait for the window to slowly roll down.

  it cracks open at first, taking a moment to get halfway down. pulling down your sunglasses partway (resting on your face far too late in the evening), you look into the car and at the driver. "shot of espresso and a splash of cream, sir?" you rest your weight on one leg, your other foot pushing against the curb.

  osamu looks up at you outside of the car window, eyebrow raised. it's been a few months since you started working together. quickly, the two of you are starting to get used to the other, their coffee routine to what items they tend to leave on their desk. pursing his lips, he nods, "yeah, now get in the car before the suspect sees us."

  "right, right, like this doesn't look like a sweet partner getting their boyfriend a cup of joe?" you joke, walking around the front of the car to enter the passenger seat. 

  the street is empty besides a few parked cars, neon lights shining off of potholes filled with old rain water. harsh overhead lamps illuminate the majority of the streets. yet in your spot, there's an odd darkness emanating from the alleyway. taking in a deep breath, you open the door, handing off the drink carrier before sitting down.

  the old undercover car sports cracked leather seats, the cup holders filled with crumbs. looking over at your partner, he's already opening his lid, taking a sip of the blazing hot coffee. rolling your eyes at his kiddish impatient behavior, you unroll the bag, uncovering the freshly fried karaage chicken. along with a few extra side items that were added.

  "how many you want? there's like seven of them, decently sized," leaning back in his seat, osamu looks over at you, his eyebrows raised.

  "probably like four or three, depending on how many you want. i'm not super hungry if you want something," he shrugs his shoulders, trying to get a gauge on your preferences. 

  grabbing out the container, you purse your lips, staring it down. the grouping of comfort food sits slightly queasy in your stomach. "yeah, just like three of them. feel free to snack away, i know how much you love food. especially because that's the only thing you ever tell me," you look over at your partner, grabbing one of them.

  you've known osamu for a few months, the 'hardened' detective persona weighing heavily on his reputation. he cracks a joke here and there, but never, ever, will he talk about his personal life. the only thing he ever told you (on one drunken night in the bar) is he harbors of love of food and cooking.

  "the only thing i ever tell you? we're coworkers, what else are we supposed to know about each other?" he smiles, his outer shell that he presents to you slightly cracking. 

  propping your leg up, you finish swallowing a bite, giving him your own smile. "but we're also responsible for saving each other's lives.. i think that's a bit more extreme than 'just coworkers'. so, anything you like to do outside of stakeouts?" your gaze returns to the nightclub, searching for the same annoying blonde mullet. 

  "outside of the riveting stakeouts? cooking-"

  "and outside of cooking! osamu, you've already told me about that, give me something to work with."

  unable to look at you, he looks forward. gaze scanning every moving car, every door opening to reveal some other patron. swallowing his nervousness, he leans forward, hands dropping to his sides, "well, sometimes i play pickup volleyball games with my brother. he still plays, so it's something we can do together."

  "volleyball? would've pegged you as more of a rugby guy or something," you smile, nodding your head, making sure not to let him feel embarrassed or judged for his interests. especially when the thought of him in a jersey isn't such a bad thought... "but that's definitely a start, now, what team did you play for?"

a/n: ahhh thanks for requesting ness!! this was so fun to write 🗣️ gen. taglist (open): @eggyrocks @causenessus @applepi25 @softpia

[dogstar9069]

Infinitely Gray/限りなく灰色へ - Surii/すりぃ

Transitional credit Shiopaca

I don’t have any talent so I’ll cry here now I suppose

The blue scenery of yours makes me so envious of your natural gift

My life’s fallen by the wayside and the asphalts growing colder now

Holding out for the light that brightens the night—it’s electricity connects us all

Rainy Rainy, I only drew what I had knew

My heart has closed off- wait! The only truth is I want to scream

Rainy Rainy, all I want to do is to be strong

My voice discarded, so empty, a lonely melody

It’s lifeless, so close to gray, my fingers are numb…

“Oh won’t you take notice of me?”

To my borrowed talent, the gray it’s dulled and colors gone—it’s infinite!

“Don’t give up! Your life hasn’t started yet!!”

A voice cried and echoed around

I’ve lost myself — oh the irony!

But I hadn’t realized, I’m still denying it

Can someone tear my feelings out?

Before they get muddied forever

Whoa-whoa… whoa-whoa…

Please look at me and convey your love

Whoa-whoa… whoa-whoa…

To this world, let’s say bye-bye-bye-bye

Whoa-whoa… whoa-whoa…

My feelings tracing the ooze and drew

Whoa-whoa… whoa-whoa…

I cried as my dreams were lost in gray

I once believed in my dreams but reality had beaten me down

Trapped and suspended in a void of my impatience and insecurity

Losing my sense of style as ambiguous figures take my place

Consumed by all the finest talents and arts, as those show-offs dissipate

Rainy Rainy, all my vain efforts lost in the rain

Bitter memories remain cold as I’m soaked on by this day

Rainy Rainy, a small break in the clouds above

Light shines down and the weight feels a little lighter

Don’t tell me, about aesthetics and pride, just go start with…

“The things you know you can do!”

The path back to the past has closed off

I’m begging please put behind your jealousy

Look at how far you’ve gone! Is it enough?

Breathe in all your small victories!

With eyes open — the irony!

I haven’t changed, I’ll try anything!

Your doubts lay and ready to pounce with a

Persona - you must beat back to the start!

Whoa-whoa… whoa-whoa…

Please look at me and convey your love

Whoa-whoa… whoa-whoa…

To this world, I’ll say bye-bye-bye-bye

Whoa-whoa… whoa-whoa…

I traced the oozing dew and drew

Whoa-whoa… whoa-whoa…

And finally swallowed in my pride

To my borrowed talent, the gray it’s dulled and colors gone—it’s infinite!

“Don’t give up! Your life hasn’t started yet!!”

A voice cried and echoed around

I’ve lost myself — oh the irony!

But I hadn’t realized, I’m still denying it

Can someone tear my feelings out?

Before they get muddied forever

Whoa-whoa… whoa-whoa…

Please look at me and convey your love

Whoa-whoa… whoa-whoa…

To this world, we’ll say bye bye bye bye

Whoa-whoa… whoa-whoa…

My fingers trace the ooze and drew

Whoa-whoa… whoa-whoa…

I laughed at shape of my wishful dreams

[esuemmanuel]

Me he deshojado lenta y dolorosamente, como aquel árbol que veo danzar triste, cada que abro los ojos al despertar. He ido dejando caer mis pensamientos a la par de sus hojas secas con el trémulo escalofrío del alba otoñal, el cual se imprime taciturno sobre la superficie del asfalto por el que son arrastradas al soplar el viento de la mañana. Me he deshojado así, tan pausado y silencioso, tan misterioso y solitario, que el tiempo ha pasado en calma, pues las hojas de mi alma no alcanzan a perturbar la salida del sol ni la faceta lunar. Me he despojado de mí, de todos esos vicios que me descomponían y me revolvían, transformándome en un ente mundano y vil… ¿Y adónde han ido mis hojas? Ésas se han esparcido por el mundo en el que nací. ¿Y en qué mundo nací? En ése que creó la mente de quien me ha escrito desde que le hablé al oído de lo que sentí. Fueron tan parecidos nuestros sentimientos que no dudó en tomarme como un ejemplo para hacerse oír. Al final, lo confundí, volviéndolo mío en un trastorno que aún le pesa curarse, y es que me pegué en sus neuronas, en sus células, en sus átomos, en su carne, en su sentir y su pensar; me le pegué tanto que ya no sabe en dónde está ni quién es. Me he apropiado de su alma, de su corazón, de su esperanza… Me atrevo a decir que no queda nada de su persona, aunque se piense que sí. ¡Qué poder tan grande tenemos los personajes! ¡Qué poder tan inmenso se nos ha concedido al ser escuchados por el que no puede evitar escribirnos! Porque yo seguiré siendo… seguiré estando… seguiré poseyendo sus manos, su corazón, su alma, su espacio y su soledad. Ya no existe él, sólo yo… y, en este yo, lo más que puede hallarse es la nada. Y pensar que nací de un sentimiento no hablado… hoy soy todo lo que no se calla en sus manos.

I have slowly and painfully shed my leaves, like that tree that I see dancing sadly, every time I open my eyes when I wake up. I have been dropping my thoughts along with its dry leaves with the tremulous shiver of the autumn dawn, which is printed taciturnly on the surface of the asphalt where they are dragged when the morning wind blows. I have shed myself thus, so leisurely and silent, so mysterious and solitary, that time has passed calmly, for the leaves of my soul do not reach to disturb the sunrise or the lunar facet. I have stripped myself of myself, of all those vices that decomposed and revolted me, transforming me into a mundane and vile entity... And where have my leaves gone? They have been scattered throughout the world in which I was born. And in what world was I born? In the one created by the mind of the one who has written to me since I spoke in his ear what I felt. Our feelings were so similar that he did not hesitate to take me as an example to make himself heard. In the end, I confused him, making him mine in a disorder that he still struggles to cure, and I got stuck in his neurons, in his cells, in his atoms, in his flesh, in his feeling and thinking; I got so stuck to him that he no longer knows where he is or who he is. I have appropriated his soul, his heart, his hope... I dare say that there is nothing left of his person, even if he thinks there is. What great power we characters have! What immense power we have been granted by being listened to by the one who cannot help but write to us! Because I will still be... I will still possess his hands, his heart, his soul, his space and his solitude. There is no longer him, only me... and, in this me, the most that can be found is nothingness. And to think that I was born from an unspoken feeling... today I am all that is not silent in his hands.

[wonsheep]

Got My Number

genre: fluff, friends-to-something-more

pairing: Jake x gender-neutral!reader

warnings: reader being referred to as beautiful, mentions of an unhealthy relationship, but only briefly, lmk if there's anything else!

word count: 1.2K

sheep's note: hello, everyone, it's been a long while since i posted actual content here, and i truly missed it, this is my first longer work on here, so please enjoy. i had fun imagining this, slughtly inspired by monsta x's got my number, but maybe i'll write something based more on the song in the future eheheeh in the meanwhile, this is my comeback and i'll try to be more sctive and practice writing in english more :DD

permanent taglist: @soobin-chois

thank you and enjoy reading!

Jake had been wondering why you haven't texted him yet. He thought your last date (actually, it was a friendly hangout, but a guy can dream) went well, and awaited your message inviting him to do something fun together.

But nothing new came up on his screen when he opened your chat for the nth time that week, only the last goodbyes you exchanged.

Y/N: had fun <3 talk to you later

The bright, white letters seemed to be mocking him as he wondered what time interval 'later' was equal to.

He was about to try and distract himself from you and your 'later'.

Hmm.

 '<3'.

Less than three. Three what? Days? Weeks? Months? No, that would be just cruel. He wanted to see you again way sooner than months.

Suddenly, three little dots appeared on the bottom of his screen, indicating that you were typing something.

It was a little stupid how Jake's heart sped up from looking at the animated circles, but he blamed it on being easily excitable.

He knew he shouldn't explore too much on his feelings for you, because it would end up awkward on your side and in a week of moping around on his.

The thing is, you already had a boyfriend. Even though you have told Jake before that nowadays, the relationship wasn't as fun as it used to be at the start, you stayed very committed.

"I'm just not really satisfied anymore, I guess…" you breathed out in a sigh, dangling your legs from the asphalt block you and Jake were perched on, next to a grassy portion of the park. "It's starting to feel like I'm more of a burden to him than a partner."

Pretty far into the night, it was quiet, only the rustling of birds settling into their places on trees and a few faraway laughs could be heard from your spot. The nearby streetlamp illuminated your features when the caress of a breeze passed by, blowing some hair into your face.

Jake moved involuntarily to remove the strands covering your eyes.

He couldn't have possibly helped being attracted to you, it would have been a nearly impossible task to not be drawn to your enticing persona.

For one, Jake thought you were effortlessly beautiful. You sometimes made him burst out laughing, without caring who could hear him, and there never was a dull moment while being with you.

You made him forget everyday struggles and made things seem better when discussing hardships you both went through as days passed by.

Jake's stomach dropped a little when you first mentioned your boyfriend, and he felt a little embarrassed, because he was in deep. Too deep already. 

So deep, in fact, that his ears went red in excitement from seeing you were about to contact him. Jake was met with disappointment yet again, when the little dots were gone, replaced by no new texts, just a blank screen.

He couldn't hold it any longer, jumping up from his bed he was previously spread out on to grab his jacket and leave the apartment immediately.

While he was locking the door, his phone vibrated with a new notification. Guessing it was probably Sunghoon telling him to wash the fucking dishes already or Riki sending one of his weird memes, he thought it wasn't urgent.

Jake pocketed his keys and started walking in the direction of your flat, not too far away, luckily, and decided to check his notification now.

His jaw dropped as he almost stopped in his tracks.

Y/N: my bed's empty without you

Yes, he had been to your room before, yes, he had laid in your bed too, but the wording… It seemed suggestive, nothing like pillow fights after a movie marathon or wishing goodnights and you asking him to stay a little longer. He brushed off the feeling though, setting his priorities and making a mental note to ask you about your wording.

Jake started putting one foot after another way quicker, and took a few deep breaths. Deciding that he had plenty of time to reply in real life, he shoved his phone into the backpocket of his light washed jeans.

There he was, faced with your door, alternating between raising his fist to rasp his knuckles against it and having a stare-off with the little stepping mat that was spread on the ground.

Taking a final calming breath, a desperate attempt at calming his racing heart, he knocked.

One, two, and then three seconds passed.

As expected, you were the one who opened the door. Looking nothing short of breathtaking in Jake's humble opinion with hair tucked away from your face, no makeup, a dark tank top and shorts.

Your lips stretched into an all-too-familiar half-smile as you recognised your visitor.

"If I knew you would appear on my doorstep after  that text, I would have sent it way sooner."

"Well, why didn't you?" Jake surprised himself with being able to put a coherent sentence together after being stunned by your beauty yet again.

Instead of answering immediately, you averted your gaze and stepped further from the entrance, inviting your friend in.

You lead Jake to the couch in front of the TV, grabbing both you and him a glass of water from the kitchen nearby.

"We broke up." You thought it would be better to be straight-forward about it, since it wasn't like being freed from this relationship was a sensitive topic for you. Obviously, you weren't nonchalant about it, but you felt better.

"Oh," Jake's mouth parted, hesitating on whether to console you or simply just accept this important fact you have thrown at him. "I'm sorry."

He wasn't sorry at all, maybe only for the fact that you might be disheartened after these events, even though you seemed fine.

The living room was bathing in warm tones thanks to the standing lamps you insisted on keeping around in the area, instead of hanging lights from the ceiling.

Your nose cast a shadow on one of your cheeks, and Jake suddenly had the urge to touch the presumably soft skin, as if he would be able to feel the dark outline of your nose.

"Don't be," you shrugged.

Jake gulped and took a sip of much needed water when you pulled up the strap of the tank top that slipped down on your shoulder.

"I'm pretty sure I will have to end things with him a second time, since he left with saying I can't break up with him, because he doesn't agree, but I'm completely done with his shit at this point." Your eyes wandered around the room while elaborating, the scene of your ex-boyfriend slamming the door to your house replaying in your head.

Catching up in the comfort of your living room and the soft pillows decorating your couch, you explained to Jake that you didn't want to risk dragging him into the ongoing fight between you and your ex, and since he would have jumped at even an innocent text from your friend, you decided on radio-silence while dealing with the problem.

Jake was only a little upset, since he found your actions reasonable, but it still bothered him that he wasn't able to help you.

After the sun dipped behind the clouds of the evening, Jake slowly got up from his seat, smiling warmly.

"See you soon?" you asked, your eyes shining.

"Yeah. Text me."

Jake lifted an arm to wrap around your waist and pull you against his chest. He moved his face so that his soft, plump lips were aligned with your ears and whispered, leaving a feather-light kiss on the side of your face.

"You've got my number."

THE END.

[sixpossumsinatrenchcoat]

a glittering house of cards [ch 3/3]

A retrospective on everyone's favorite Fortune Arcana (and only 15 years too late!!) [PERSONA 3 SPOILERS FOR THE ENTIRE GAME]

It’s nice to think that some things are universal. Meeting estranged family is always a little awkward, even when your mom is the moon. At the shuddering heights of Tartarus, Thanatos gives Nyx a wan smile. “Hello, mother,” he says dutifully. “You look well.” The moon glares down at him, one enormous pea-green eye. Even without what might be called a face, Nyx still manages to convey a faint air of surprise. It figures. Kids never turn out how you expect. “It's the scarf, isn’t it,” he says, looking down at it. “You think it makes me look frivolous.”

I suspect that this goes without saying, but just to be safe: spoiler warning for the end of Persona 3 Portable and, by extension, ancillary spoilers for P3/P3R/etc. You can start from part one here.

It’s nice to think that some things are universal. Meeting estranged family is always a little awkward, even when your mom is the moon.

At the shuddering heights of Tartarus, Thanatos gives Nyx a wan smile.

“Hello, mother,” he says dutifully. “You look well.”

The moon glares down at him, one enormous pea-green eye. Even without what might be called a face, Nyx still manages to convey a faint air of surprise. It figures. Kids never turn out how you expect.

“It's the scarf, isn’t it,” he says, looking down at it. “You think it makes me look frivolous.”

Nyx gives up on understanding. She does not know the steps to this dance. Sorry I’m late, traffic was hell. You wouldn’t believe the congestion in the mesosphere. You look wonderful, you’ve grown so much, but you’re too skinny! A growing boy needs to eat! Words that mean nothing and words that mean everything. Muscle memories and rituals and expectations to subvert. Chaos into order, dust into meat. Comedy. Drama. Heartache and heartbreak and limited-time-only seasonal crepes. The whole bloody theater of life. It isn’t for her.

(It wasn’t supposed to be for Thanatos, either. It’s just that he got to borrow a little, for a while.)

Thanatos watches himself disappear.

It doesn’t hurt. Dying never does. People just get the wrong idea because they’ve got so used to living, which hurts immensely.

The last indignity is this: no matter how much you didn't want to, if you live long enough, eventually, you will have to see yourself become your mother.

###

Ryoji dreams.

Which is weird because, as a rule, the dead generally don’t. Death isn’t a long sleep. It’s just what happens when everything else stops. No more sleep. No more dreams. No more anything, ever. Pretty much by definition. But that doesn’t read as well on the bereavement card.

Nevertheless, Ryoji dreams. Maybe it’s another of his little perks. More special treatment to reward him for being a monster who shattered into twelve nightmares and a leech.

(It couldn’t be mercy. Nyx doesn’t know the meaning of the word.)

Ryoji dreams of a sky stained red and a sea painted black. Asphalt studded with steel coffins, hiding meat that’s only just begun to bloat. Ribbons of yellow and green pulse from the moon. Putrescent, like a wound.

One car remains on the crumbling bridge, crunched and upended but intact. Something inside it calls to him.

Death draws near.

There are four bodies in the car. Three of them are empty, but there is light still stirring in the fourth. She wriggles against the belt that binds her to her seat, one tiny hand clutching at the hand of something dead. Its hand looks just like hers. A perfect mirror.

Thanatos cannot understand. What is it that makes life so alluring? Why do the living cling so hard to something they were never going to keep?

It matters little. The girl is an opportunity. A shelter from which to gather strength. Hiding inside her will be easy. Death dwells in everything that breathes.

The girl hardens as she ages, like a scab. Scar tissue seals over her wounds. Slowly she learns how to pretend. How to hold out her hands and put on a smile.

She chases sensation. Blood on her knuckles, ash in her mouth. The sting of the safety pin through the lobe of her ear, her yelp muffled by fabric clenched between her teeth. Grit and gravel ground into her knees. Warm palms clenched tight against hers. She feels something, for a moment, and then nothing. None of it is anything. No feeling ever lasts.

She goes to sleep in the dark, alone.

But she isn’t alone.

(She’s never alone.)

The girl transfers schools, again. She’s made too many enemies, and still more false friends. She has donned a thousand masks. She knows, now, how to pretend.

Soon it will be over. The watcher takes comfort in that. Perhaps the girl would, too, if only he could tell her.

All at once, he finds that he can. Not only can—he must. There’s a contract that she must sign. An agreement that every living thing has already made; that they’ll make again and again and again. Someday, the pain will end. Memento Mori: Remember That You Will Die.

And when she opens the dormitory door, for the first time, she can see him.

The camera tilts. The witnessed, bearing witness. The watcher, suddenly seen.

“Hello,” Pharos tells her, and smiles. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

The End

It's the end of the world.

Trees shudder and creak. Leaves pucker and drop. Steam curls off the surface of a sea already beginning to boil. And at the top of a very tall tower, nine specks of dust prepare for their final fight.

(There will be no more fighting, after this. There will be no ‘after.’ Only peace.)

Nyx will not mourn this world. Death is not the cost of life—it is its maker. Not an end, but an absence. What is light without shadow? What is shadow without something to cast it?

Death bounds life and life breeds death. Death defines life defines death, defines life, and around and around they go. Ring around the ro~sie, a pocket full of po~sies. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. Such a merry game! Such a merry chase! And then we all fall down.

There is no absolute truth, except for this: all living things are born to die. It is the ouroboros of existence. A snake can only swallow its own tail for so long before it runs out of tail.

You can finish part three here. Or start from the beginning here.

[halloiambored]

Random Snippet

CW: fighting, hero x villain. Implied future abuse.

Villain hated losing.

Hated it.

But at least they know they tried everything… it’s just… even they couldn’t win this one.

“Stop fighting me, Villain.”

“Hhmmmgh,” the criminal retorted, face slammed into the asphalt.

It hurt; injury after injury layered their broken frame. God, it was terrible, but they knew it was only going to get worse. So much worse.

As chilled metal clamped around their bound wrists, anxiety got the best of them; chest rising and falling in short, choked pants.

This was never supposed to happen. Hero was supposed to be gone, long gone… why…?

“You know, I never thought it would be this easy,” Hero mused, huffing out a broken chuckle. They had been after Villain for years - and here they were, all it took was a short scuffle.

Only once Hero triple checked the cuffs did they tentatively reach a hand to their busted lip, fighting a wince. Villain got them good. They’d pay for it, the fucking—

A tremor ran through the body pinned beneath them. Oh… that was… new. Hero’s grimace widened into a wicked grin.

“Are you… shaking?”

Another uncontrollable shudder racked their small frame, and Villain forced their traitorous hands to curl into fists. Damnit, damnit, no.

“Look at you, Villain. You’re -ha! - you are shaking.”

Villain’s stomach flipped at the bite in Hero’s words. Though they knew it was pointless, Villain’s breath was turning jagged, on the edge of a breakdown.

This was never supposed to happen.

It was taking all of their willpower to maintain composure; to pretend like their signature, stoic persona wasn’t in shambles.

“Fuck you.” They snarled, voice sharp as a blade. But all Hero did was laugh, a gloating, vicious sound that sunk its claws into Villain’s frantically beating heart.

“Y’know, you should really watch that mouth of yours.” With unbridled hatred, Hero slammed Villain’s head against the ground, eliciting a soft, pained gasp.

“No one is coming to save you, darling… and I’m just getting started.”

[monvenusblg]

Eight of Wands & Motorsport Racers

You don’t need a license to heed the siren call of the open road.

💋Motorsports or Biker fashion aesthetic and the individuals who wear them embody the energy of the 8 of wands best. Mandolin-collared racer jackets, belted boots, and chunky zippers all preferably in leather equipped these warriors for an urban apocalypse. The highly durable, high-speed clothing symbolizes protection against the dying city streets of a post-apocalyptic world. In comparison with ancient suit of armors, however, current styles are far more playful and sexier. The aesthetic’s created fantasy of crime and speed attracts people to them in recent years. Muses of the 8 of wands tempt us to strike while the iron is hot. To live a life of adrenaline. Their style represents what living in the fast lane and/or wide expanse looks like.

☄️The final stages of the fire suit in tarot (wands) had left the drive to conquer in Aries and the celebration and trials of leadership in Leo. When we arrived in Sagittarius, the heroine became legendary for her previous deeds. At the end lies a burden to sustain one’s legacy. Hence, in the 10 of Wands imagery, a man is weighed down by his many accomplishments. The 8 of wands is exactly where the action is. A mutable fire or a wildfire is on the move. Here in a Jupiter-ruled fire sign, ambition changes gears to higher realms. Ruthlessness and conflicts seemed to be left far behind in Aries and Leo. So why is there something immoral about Sagittarius first decan? Why the association with crime?

☄️Boldness, Malice, Liberty headline the decan’s Agrippa image. We encountered a warrior braving the open road. Perhaps for an adventure or…in most cases, to get away with something. Mercury who co-rules with Jupiter gives this decan its shadow qualities since he is the god Hermes who travels between the underworld and the surface world. Constantly lurking between worlds often pushes them to the fringes of society. It is one of the many hermetic explanations for Sagittarius' bohemian or free-spirit stereotypes. They are sometimes deemed dangerous for being part of the counter-culture. Often they are tasked to carry the collectives' shadow representing the antithesis of whatever was the norm at that time. Another significant Hermetic symbolism is the fixed stars of Lupus the wolf which can be seen in three degree groups of this decan. In ancient times wolves were powerful shamanic creatures representing higher learning (9th house) and the human drive to investigate the existence or nature of God. A very Sagittarian theme. Unfortunately, by medieval times wolves became negatively associated with heresy. Women especially are vulnerable to allegations of dark witchcraft practices. Believed to seduce “wretched” people and entrapping them.

💋Etymologically, Lupa in Latin (lit. she-wolf) translates to a prostitute who seduces through her rapaciousness. Interestingly, a key feature of the biker aesthetic during its peak fame (2022/2023) is a luscious deep red dubbed ‘cherry cola’. It was in every subsection of beauty (hair, nails, makeup). The star muse of this shade is a leather jacket-wearing and over-lined lipped Kylie Jenner, emphasizing yet again the sex appeal of biker/racer-inspired clothing. Although the clingy materials of biker aesthetics are mainly worn to shield them from the rough asphalt, they naturally complement the body’s natural curves. I think this resonates with the 8 of Wands persona. Natives of this card play the forbidden fruit, the dark bittersweet cherry who is likely to scare you as much as she entices. Mercury’s wit and Jupiter’s jovialness bestow a charming and humorous attitude to individuals of first Sagittarius. The humor is not without irony, however, a little black and morbid. Still, this gives them a uniquely intoxicating charm, capable of making illicit subjects and dangerous antics at best, cathartic and simultaneously fun.

☄️Sagittarius Decans are represented by the Centaur creature (half-man, half-beast). They reveal the unification of our animalistic nature with our human (strategic, meaning-making, rational) mind. our pursuit of higher learning and philosophy can’t be separated from the physical prowess of our lower, instinctual nature. Instead, in Sagittarius, we learned that it is on our basest nature to enquire about the physical world around us. Hence, there’s an understanding among racers and bikers to merge with their vehicle. Akin to ancient Amazonians and warriors who built genuine deep relationships with their horses. Together they become formidable warriors. Moreso in this decan than the ones after do we see the full result of this unification. Austin Koppock named Decan one of Sagittarius: “poisoned arrows”, which I think testify to the swift precision of its natives in obtaining their goals. Whether it is a race to the finish line, a beloved to seduce, or dreams to chase, it'll surely be attained fast and decisively.

💋To feel the 8 of Wands in its entirety I suggest watching the Fast and Furious movies. They feature styling and female characters who embody the card/decan's bold, fiery, and intense energy with a hint of malice. The garments and styling worn in the "Fast and Furious" saga testify to its global settings (Puerto Rico, Tokyo, London, Los Angeles, and more). Since Jupiter does not understand boundaries and only expansion, travel is expected. Elements such as muscle tees, jeans, leather, etc. are modified through color and cut depending on levels of practicality as well as settings and characters. The women share an element of vulgarity overall though, especially in the earlier installments. Each look is adorned with silver metal jewelry and chunky leather footwear. The clothes show equal parts skin and fierceness, fitting for the characters' rough lifestyle as professional drag racers. A personal favorite of mine are the looks worn by Suki (Devon Aoki) in 2 Fast 2 Furious (2015). She clearly wasn't denied any restrictions with colors. Dressed in multicolored ensemble of crop tanks and shirts paired with the internet famous hot pink low-rise jeans which display cheeky crossed threads at the crotch and thigh area. Then there's a tartan schoolgirl skirt paired with studded boots number, as well as a monochrome look of matching short-shorts and racing tee with knee-high white boots. Suki's overall wardrobe is an ode to the spunky enthusiasm of Sagittarius Decan one/8 of Wands personality.

☄️Alternatively, "Mad Max" films feature a grittier take on the “men being one with their machine” trope. Here there’s an added touch of ecological doom where the desert becomes a character of its own. Both franchises rely on “horsepower” aka the speed of their chosen machines. It's a testament to the double mercurial influence in the 8 of Wands; quick instinctual movement and action is emphasized as important skills to survive the harshness of each respective environment. The costumes carry the 8 of Wands message for proper mental and emotional preparation before you embark on a journey or face a war zone. In Mad Max, the threat is very much physical, depicting environmental devastation and civilization collapse. The outfits consist of tattered rags, harnesses, and armored chest pieces. ID-magazine describes 2015 Mad Max movie’s aesthetic as the "scavenged and wanderlust". The female characters of this world have no choice but to roam. Their clothing provides immediate protection from the post-apocalyptic desert. With Furiosa's (Charlize Theron) tactical attire, we see someone who possess mastery over her environment. Her femininity is hidden underneath the ashy face paint and accessories made from cars and motor parts. Including a symbolic asymmetrical shoulder armor. She dress similar to that of the opposing ‘war boys’. I think this signifies her alignment with the 8 of wands message I wrote above. In contrast, the nymph-like tattered white fabrics covering the rescued maidens, expresses human vulnerability against such conditions. They were previously held hostage and therefore are yet to subtilize the high velocity energies around them. Violence, warfare, and oppression are some thematic commonalities of this film with the 8 of wands. So, although the outfits of Mad Max aren't acclimatized into the mainstream biker/racer aesthetic, I believe they represent the energetic essence behind this aesthetic in its most pure and rawest form.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Check the gallery below for more contemporary fashion/visual inspirations:

🫶Let me know if you enjoy this post! I’m thinking to turn this into a series about all 78 tarot cards and each corresponding aesthetics. So far, I’ve seen really fascinating patterns emerge and I’m so excited to share them. I hope my posts will get better as i adapt to writing my downloads. x Jess

[brokenpieces-72]

Paloma 'Sunny' Vascoe

Part 1. Part 2. This is part 3

Alejandro had requested information from her, via text to a burner phone she kept in the shoe box. Once she had gotten her bag, it had been the first thing she checked. All she sent back was a message asking for some time. The usual spot she’d gone to for the exchanges was clearly unsafe, not to mention some distance from the safe house. A new spot was required.

There was a knock on her door, and she quickly put the phone back in to the shoe box, before shoving it under the bed. Paloma answered the door. Alejandro explained he needed to leave the safe house, and it would be safe and secure. Before that though he showed her where the weapons were stashed in the house just in case.

Paloma waited until he left the house with Rudolfo, listening for the sound of the vehicles leaving. Paloma took some time on her personal phone, to check a location she’d seen on the way to the safehouse.

An abandoned zoo. That would work. No one would be around, no security footage and hopefully no other Narcos.

Paloma took the shoe box out again and checked the message Alejandro had sent her, properly.

A: I need some information tonight, can you meet?

?: hang on, need a minute.

Paloma texted him back.

?: New location. Abandoned Zoo. Give me a couple of hours.

A: How much?

Paloma thought about it for a minute, staring at the phone. She set it down and got changed into darker clothing, ripped black jeans, a dark grey shirt and a black hoodie. After taking her fingers through her hair quickly, she tied her hair back. She tried a bandanna around her head, knotting it under her ponytail, and then put on the skeletal bandanna over her face. The hood covered the top of her face enough at night, so she couldn’t be seen as easily. Thankfully Alejandro respected his informant’s privacy.

Paloma stuffed a few things into her pockets and checked her phone.

A: How much?

He would be pissed upon meeting her. Not like the two got along all that much, their transactions were quick, with him having little patience for her antics. Tonight though, would be bad. Marco had been attacked. She recalled the weapons stash. Just in case, she told herself. Paloma could shoot. A hand gun couldn’t hurt. As she opened the stash, and reached for one of the hand guns, she noticed her hands were shaking. Call it off? No. No she had to give him the information no matter what he asked for.

The hand gun was strapped to her belt and gidden under her t-shirt. Paloma got the burner phone and saw the last text again. She couldn’t tell him no, he would question it. There was always a price for information. If it wasn’t money then it was an exchange of more information.

A: how much?

?: Sorry in a rush. $100, but you know my interest rates.

Paloma tucked everything into a small over the shoulder backpack and hurried out of the safe house.

Meanwhile Alejandro watched through a tablet, as his informant fled the safehouse. He hadn’t told her about the cameras. Alejandro sighed, with Rudolfo sitting next to him in the jeep. He’d figured her out, but deep down he had wanted to be wrong.

…………

Paloma found an opening in the fence bordering the abandoned zoo. She slipped in and texted Alejandro to see how far out he was.

A: Another hour.

?: aight

For a moment she pulled her bandanna down from her face, breathing in the muggy Las Almas air. She needed some time to get into her informant persona. Personality went a long way, keeping her home life and Narcos life separate. It hadn’t done enough, but at this point there was no going back. Safer to keep up the facade with Alejandro, otherwise she could lose her only father for good. Lose the only safety and family she’s ever known.

Paloma heard a jeep pulling up and meandered over to it, covering her face once again. She traipsed over the cracked and crumbled asphalt and cement walkways before hopping on to a short wall. The young narcos paced along her wall, with her hands behind her back, each step being animated, like a guilty cartoon character trying to walk away without getting caught. The jeep’s lights remained on, as she heard two doors open and close from the sides. There was still the wrought iron gate between them, as she turned on her heel and then hopped back off the wall. The two special forces men stood in front of the gate, with her on the other side. She went over to them keeping the hood up in a way that still shadowed her eyes.

“Well what can I do for you gentleman?” She asked, tilting her head to the side. Alejandro’s eyes bearing into her, while a normal response, this time shut down her antics quickly. She swallowed hard.

“…okay… definitely not a social call then. Must be pretty serious information you need from me.” The narcos said.

“You know what I want pendejo.” He said. Paloma went very still and very quiet. Oh fuck she was in big shit now.

“A little lost there colonel. You didn’t tell me anything in the texts.” Paloma said, failing to hide her nervousness.

“He didn’t need to.” Rudolfo corrected. The narcos was feeling very fortunate there were iron bars between her and the two men. Her gaze dropped as she debated whether to make a run for it. There’s a chance still.

“You mean the recent attack. Heard about it, not sure what else I can tell ya…” she said keeping her head down.

“Why did they go after him?” Alejandro asked. “The full truth.”

Paloma sighed. Fuck it. There was no point.

“I thought I was being careful.” She said quietly. “I swear I never meant for any of it to happe-“

“What the fuck did you think would happen?!” Alejandro snapped.

“I joined to keep them off of us! I didn’t have anything before Marco and being with him kept me safe! That’s why I started selling the intel!” She exclaimed, emotions were erupting in her chest and out her throat. “I could get money to help Marco, try to keep him out of harm’s way, and help you guys take down the narcos. Now it’s all gone wrong and I don’t know how! I swear I thought he was safe!”

She buried her face in her hands. Alejandro shook his head, while Rudolfo crossed his arms.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Rudolfo asked. Paloma dropped her hands.

“I was scared… didn’t want to lose the only family I had. But I already fucked that up. I swear the intel stuff was just to help pay bills. Marco didn’t know anything about it.” Paloma said. Alejandro stepped away from the gate, shaking his head. Kid was in over her head that was for sure, and she’d put herself there.

“I joined the narcos so I could stay safe, and keep Marco out of it. I didn’t want anything to do with it after we killed some poor guy who was just living on the streets.”

She continued. “It’s why I went to you directly. If you had the information, there was no chance of it going wrong. Marco trusted you. Raids and attacks could be stopped before they happened.”

Alejandro paced around while Rudolfo was watching Paloma. She was right the information had been useful. He understood why she did it but now there were consequences. Ones she hadn’t prepared for. He believed her, it was a matter of trusting her.

“Can you get more?” Alejandro asked. Paloma looked at him, eye widening slightly. She looked at Rudolfo and then back at Alejandro, before nodding.

“I can try.” She said. Alejandro sighed.

“Keep doing it.” He ordered.

“Colonel?” Rudolfo looked at his friend a little confused.

“You can get me more information than get it. Keep doing it. You’re good at it. Find out who learned your name. We’ll take care of it together.” He said, almost begrudgingly. “Not losing my best source.”

Paloma nodded. “Yes sir.”

“When you go back, you have to cover all of this. Marco, the exchanges, the safehouse, everything. It never happened.”

Paloma nodded, straightening up.

“If anything goes wrong you need to tell us, either me or Sergeant Parra.” He ordered. She nodded again.

“…what happens now?” She asked.

“Head back to the safe house. I need to finish up some work at the base.” She nodded and waited.

“Dismissed.” He said. Paloma gave him a tiny smile under the bandanna, nodded before hurrying off into the zoo. Rudolfo joined Alejandro back to the jeep.

“You think she’ll be okay?” Rudolfo asked.

“We’ll see.” Alejandro said. “She’s good. I think she can.”

Rudolfo nodded and got into the vehicle with his colonel.

Note: There is more to come but in terms of the overall backstory of how Paloma got involved with Alejandro and the Los Vaqueros this is the finale. I intend to post more later on. If you have any suggestions, ideas, questions or requests, feel free to use the Request button or leave a comment.

Taglist: @yourlovely-moon @kaoyamamegami @h0n3y_l3m0n5 @sans-chara @1mommyrose4ever29 @smitten-haematite-quartz @talia-the-gemini @yuki2129 @whitetiger846 @graystorm444 @chibiduck @reaperxxxxzz @danielle143 @sobbingnshtting @cringeycookies @cryingpages @dcnocap207 @reaper-chan666

[amiaima]

Infinitely Gray (English Version)

Translation by amiaima

I don't have the talent so I'll just stay here and cry all my life

I was envious of the bright shade of blue in the scene right before my eyes

A life fallen off to the wayside; the asphalt beneath grew ever colder

Seeking a light to brighten the night, I connect to the electric world

Rainy Rainy, I drew only what I saw in my dreams

Closing my heart off - wait! In truth I want to scream

Rainy Rainy, I wished to be strong always

My voice got lost in the night, carrying a lonely feeling

All I could convey was the color of my pain, as lifeless as it could be

"Why won't you recognize me?"

The gray I painted my canvas with has become even duller,

"Your life isn't over, so don't give up!"

Someone's voice rang in my head

I'd lost sight of myself - What irony.

I still deny it, but I don't realize

Someone, please, take these feelings from me

Before they turn muddied and muddled

Wow... Look at me and convey your love

Wow... To this kind of world, say bye bye bye bye

Wow... I traced my feelings and drew them

Wow... Tears spilled out from my dreams

I believed I would do it someday but reality is harsher than all your words

A hurricane of impatience and self-doubt brought darkness to my too weak mind

With my degenerating aesthetic sense and my ambiguous representations,

I'd only be swallowed by those people's works and eventually disappear

Rainy Rainy, my futile efforts were washed away

Those cold memories remain and soak me in tears

Rainy Rainy, peeking out through the gap in the clouds

When the light hit me, it lifted the weight off my body

You shouldn't go on about aesthetics and pride, listen to my advice

"Do the things you can actually do"

On the path of retreat that's closed off I put aside my borrowed talent for a moment,

Just having done something is a win right?

This is not the time to hold your breath!

This view never changes - What irony!

I've realized it, but I can't do anything

Those mere personas know all your weak spots-

Don't let their comments get to you!

Wow... Look at me and convey your love

Wow... To this kind of world, say bye bye bye bye

Wow... I traced my feelings and drew them

Wow... I swallowed the true meaning of my words

The gray I painted my canvas with has become even duller,

"Your life isn't over, so don't give up!"

Someone's voice rang in my head

I'd lost sight of myself - What irony.

I still deny it, but I don't realize

Someone, please, take these feelings from me

Before they turn muddied and muddled

Wow... Look at me and convey your love

Wow... To this kind of world, say bye bye bye bye

Wow... I traced my feelings and drew them

Wow... Tears spilled out from my dreams

[tlgpandoramia]

Neon Blood : The First Chapter

Just the first chapter of my new book. Currently it's the second draft, however I still didn't decided entirely about many things, so It may drastically change it in the future...Or Not XD Any (kind) feedback it's appreaciate it. OBS: It contains several spelling and grammar errors.

Welcome To Near Dark

Great and creatives mind preaches about the Devil and evil in the form of a horned man, that the world started as a ball of nothingness, beginning when the first human were born...A little egocentric thought, it isn't?

The devil can be quite a genius, tricking people to believe that It doesn’t exist, alive in the mind of the faithful that if though they pray for Its destruction, fear gives birth to strength, after all it’s a standard human thing to ignore the fact that if you despise something, then you’re acknowledging its existence. A perfect disguise for a world where no one believes the very thing in front of their eyes. Think about it, a perfect disguise, for the evil to do the Devil’s job.

Mary Shelley once said ‘’No man chooses evil because it is evil; he only mistakes it for happiness, the good he seeks’’. Few blood-hand individual will see themselves as doing a genuine macabre thing, instead perusing the path of justifying their actions, either by using the excuse of a god complex, or just for fun, true evil draws in the weakness of the unfaithful.

How easy it would be to tell a tale and make as if some guy in a jumpsuit, or a creepy clown acted as the antagonist bogeyman in my closet, after all many children are scared by that. When I came to be, Father called me a perfect angel, saying how pretty those bright blue eyes were, or the pretty ginger flocks coming out of the skull. An ordinary man, disguising himself as an angelic persona with fluffy white wings, yet later that child grow to be a girl and she started to see his true self, a definition of deception and pain.

I could indulge in a story about some child that got crushed by an incoming truck and left on the scorching asphalt. However, nothing worked as in the movies, as she learned why fiction is called fiction, no reanimated corpses attempting to eat your brain, werewolves howling under the moonlight and ripping humans apart, or the cliche that danger is outside and lurking in the dark.

Sometimes it happened in the dark, I would cry and beg for someone to be telepathic and read my thoughts. Father loved horror movies, he used to tell stories about shadow like beings living in the house, and locked me inside a dark closet just for the laughs.

‘’You talk and our family’s over, you don’t want that, do ya?’’ the raspy tone still plagues my mind, in special during the night. A perfect child, quiet, intelligence, non problematic and quite independent, yet I had to act as a the clumsy and silly girl that would fall and injured herself in a daily basis.

Now I’m seventeen, just achieved that milestone last year February’s, although no pride behind it, I saw more disgrace, poverty and pain than an experience slash horror protagonist, no scary slasher killed me, in the final scene a random car appeared and picked me up. On the outside a neutral persona, yet inside things were different, screaming, crying and laughing, all in the same time, and in the same order.

Things changed, and the prophecy of the family being separated came true, although I stayed in the good guys side, it could a case of Freddy and Frank, that returned to the sequel to suffer the same fate in a different place, nevertheless it feels that a mantle of fog envelops me and prevents anyone to see me the same way they did before, it can be so cold and lifeless inside of it, a feverish dream, or a summer afternoon nap, nothing has the sensation to be real, a collective madness that involves my brothers and mother, a dream sequence of some kind, although it sound absurd, not a single souls enjoys when everything’s perfect and the character realizes that it happened during a dream.

No demon or haunting are present in this plot, I’m haunted, okay, yet not by some gray skin with spiked fangs. It may be wrong to think, but it would’ve be easier if the haunting stayed physical, the screams and traumas caused more injuries that the metal leash or the slaps, no one wishes to hear from their parent that they were a mistake, that nobody would missed me, Father acted cruel without trying, or he tried to offer a lesson about real life.

The Dilemma that ‘’if it’s bad, why not leave?’’ can be common, and I have an answer for it, a caged bird that lived its entire live inside bars sees flying as an illness. If Shelley’s quote has real knowledge, then it means that father held no evil inside of him, trying on his own way to prove a point of view.

By thinking about it, I can’t shake the thought that no one stood up for me, how wrong its to think it, even as a intrusive emotion, I didn’t asked for help, feeding the foolish judgment that somehow any of the three could notice it. Kids dream about strong heroes flying and save them, later in life that children becomes the adult that were their ideal savior. I don’t feel like one, or capable of aiding that little girl, to be honest from time to time I tend to still be scared of the past.

I had mother in my thought when the decision to reveal what happened won, I didn’t wished for her to remain married with that boomer, yet the doubt that she would take his side and refuse to believe in my version kept me from sleeping for many nights. Telling that a child is bad when it isn’t changes their soul, starting as a thought, then confirmation and last, vengeance, when the wish of wanting nothing more that to be evil comes over.

I didn’t turned into a slasher. However I didn’t gained justice for ten years of abuse, we just left it all behind in Detroit, hoping that moving somewhere else could help all four of us.

She couldn’t afford Las Californias, or a one bedroom house anywhere in the country. We were lost, they all enjoyed our old home and it broke the younger one.

As a child, I imagined how the sea and a beach would be, photos could’ve helped, if only people without a neural implant could access it. The sea fascinates me, how life began in it, so full of life and history, a living poetry of billion of years.

For three days and three nights we stayed in cramped hotels that smelled as if a chem party happened there, I preferred to stay on the chair instead of sleeping on those bed sheets, imaging the beach waves and how it could feel during late evenings, more that once I caught signs of people meant to be road killers, yet much less charming.

Mother talked about that town hundred of times, describing it as the perfect haven for the punks and wires, a woman born and raised there, leaving it behind for some steam surfer guy.

The trip proved to be brutal to mother’s wallet, and for me, since I have a bad breath dog breathing on my neck for hours.

Both boys kept going on who should decide the radio song , quite annoying bantering, songs changing every two minutes, until one of the great lords decided that it’s worth to be played.

‘’In the web that is my, I begin again…’’ Mom hums to the song coming out of the dusty radio, she has her moments, sometimes longer that usual.

‘’Nope’’ Jesse leans over, pressing the button and changing station for the fifth time.

‘’Come on, that was rad in my time’’ the next music station proves to be boring to both boys, two industrial guys cringing over the slang and non synth wave song.

‘’Not yet’’ the two syncs their voices, Mom sighs in defeat, pressing the button three times until a rock music plays, something about a teenage frankstein.

Xeno stretches its paws, forcing me to further shrug my legs, between the travel from that creepy hotel and the three hours on the highway my poor lower limbs took the worse, not to mention wearing a long skirt had been the stupidest thing ever after the name Jesse gave the dog. It feels that every lower muscle cramped and shrink, January should've been colder, winter and all, yet the climates changes, plus the local humidity made everything worse.

It amazes me how neither of them bother to ask ‘’Are we there yet?’’, classic line in any horror movie, a family moving into a chaotic and fisherman town, to live in a decayed overpopulated building, still requires a decent author to make things interesting, it could have some dark romance, and no computer generated imagery, or that virtual reality images, I’m a practical effects girl all the way.

‘’Look, jus’ a little longer’’ Mom points to the neon billboard on a small island a few meters from the shore and the coastal rocks.

It says ‘’Welcome To Near Dark’’, a turned off neon LED banner, daytime reduced it to a giant glass letters, erasing all the traces of the images.

‘’Real niche, Mom’’ Jesse adjust the headphones that ran out of battery hours ago’’It smells funny, fish, and oil, and fuel…’’

‘’Jesse...’’Mom rubs his left arm, glancing back at Michael and I, she told so many tales about this town, conjuring images of a true Las Californias haven experience’’I know things are awful, like totally gnarly, but I think that you’re goin’ to really like here’’

Mom optimism can make a corpse believe in resurrection, it makes my heart twitches, almost if it would hurt if I chose not to believe, as if she speak it enough times it will be true.

The air’s hotter, cursed be humidity, making my hair frizzy and reducing my head size. A fresh breeze comes from the sea helps to fend off the thick warm air, Michael has a stoic expression, yet this type of weather its his thing, how Jesse and him would spend hours in the backyard old pool, the horrible combination of aromas is just a side effect for him.

For me it plays a different role, as the sun only purpose is to burn my skin, causing some friendly fire on my exposed forearms.

And so it begins, the first sights of civilization of Near Dark, which promised nothing and delivered everything, a kaleidoscope of styles and bizarreness. People driving convertibles, whooping and hollering at anything that has legs, pedestrians showing middle fingers and shouting bad names, cursing the driver’s family down to their first generation, a few throw things at it, a true free for all, a true beach town experience, the weakest here could send the strongest from Detroit to a clinic.

To add further, sunburn skins and bodily implants seems to be the fashion, plus a notorious clothing shortage, a lady wearing a yellow fluorescent bikini spins around on a Rollerblade, waving at the upcoming vehicles and just acting as the standard gore character that get kill in the first forty minutes.

Tourist and locals alike passes by the street, carrying their frozen treats and ice cream cones melting on the two afternoon sun, a thrill of sweat grease on the sidewalk, it should be the least of the contamination worries, as the gutter are filled with wasted cigarettes, discarded food packaging and plastic, I can imagine the state of the water drainage system, at least no one will flow down there.

Mom flags the pedestrians, giving time for the crowd to disperse, some do just that, allowing us to pull over and enter a side way to some rinky dink gas station. Others are not so polite, screaming at mother to be careful, a guy punches the hood, not hard enough to cause a full argument, yet loud enough to make her apologizes. He passes by my window, although the wagon truck is tall, I just sink lower on the seat to avoid eye contact, a gang of Nazi Runners, mowhanks, loose tank tops, thick gloves covered by spikes, shoulders pad meant to tackle on their victims and the surgical implanted enhance eyes, dark silver goggles scanning me and waiting for a breach to engage in their illicit hobbies.

As soon as the wagon parks, Jesse jumps out, dragging Xeno along by the leash, running to the opposite side of the station.

Although Michael’s my brother which I love with all my heart, being alone with a male a few centimeters away sparks an unsettling sensation, he breaks the uncomfortable mood between us by distancing himself.

‘’Hey, you saw that thing on the sign?’’

‘’What?’’

‘’Nevermind’’ Michael sighs, leaving the car and entering the gas station, just standing there without any goal.

My knees twinges on the chance to be stretch, however the humidity is worse outside, forcing me to shield my eyes from the sun and the breeze of warm wind. The beach has a second sea, this one of people, some laying on the hot sand, cooking alive while others are enjoying the water, most of the frequents are tourist, it can be spotted with ease due to eye squinting and expensive sunglasses, over the years pollution made the sun increased its radiation rays, or whatever its called. People passes by and throw glares at me, the worst part is how I can feel the sweat sliding on my legs below the socks, lack high knees frying my skin, can’t blame them for the crooked eyes, I would do the same if someone’s wearing fluorescent bikinis back in Detroit.

Mom fills the car with gas, giving me an accidental high from the smell, natives from here drinks fuel as part of an initiation ritual, how she knows this is beyond me, although I can guess the answer for this enigma.

On the outskirts, three older teenagers ignores the beach across the street, instead diving in the dumpster, Jesse run past it, pointing beyond the city.

‘’There’s a freakin’ amusement park there, look, Mom!’’

At the distance, a glorious roller coaster shape decorates the horizon, even two enormous spotlights simulating eyes of some sort, below it a large construction gives access to the pier, beach and a coastal mall. The whole place’s sleeping, the glass signs and billboards, plus it lacks crowd, although Jesse’s swooning over the sight, Mom’s unphased, mere giving him an agreement and focusing her attention to the gas pump.

One of the teens falls on the floor, laughing about it and complaining about the cement hardness, only to dive right back in. A faded green hair girl pick a white and red fast food package, taking a piece of a half eaten pie, biting it as it’s a delicacy of some sort.

Runways escaping from someone or something, those three could’ve been Michael, Jesse and I, Mom worked hard to prevent that, pointing us to the right direction and creating an environment where we could talk to each other, instead of dwelling within our heads and battling it alone.

Near Dark it’s full of this type, overpopulated it, one on every sidewalk, some better dressed, a few with implants, yet all carries the same essence, a dozen bleed with the background, attempting to survive and just go on another day.

As I open my bad, the wallet beg for some content, it’s being a whole month since it saw money, yet a single ten Neodollar chip remains, the last memory from my collection sold two months ago.

Mom expressions frowns, yet she makes the choice to handle over her last chip to those teenagers, urging Jesse to approach.

‘’Jes, get those kid this for some food’’ although Jesse don’t challenges her orders, yet gives me a side look when I also give some chips for the homeless youth.

He opens the mouth for a split second, a single word coming out, however Mom rubs his shoulder, although he’s reluctant, Jesse budges, giving the chips to the teenagers, signaling that the task went smooth. It mesmerizes me how happy those kids are by receiving the chips, jumping around and teasing each other by touches and playful punches, waving at Mom and screaming around.

‘’Thanks, cougar, you’re ten!’’ the green hair one performs a gesture with both hands, Mom face lights up on the compliment.

No doubt that those chips will be quite useful for them, buying food for tonight or maybe rent some place to take a shower, nevertheless we could’ve used it as well.

Jay insist on going into the amusement park as a reward from following the command, circling around the car and putting Xeno back inside.

‘’Come on, I’m more desperate that a brain eater zombie in a influencers party!’’

‘’Later, zombie punk, Grandma’s watin’ for us’’

A convertible full of Runners approaches, the beat coming out of their speakers vibrates the wagon interior, at least it look that the group’s having fun, unlike me, being burn alive by the scorching seat. Michael has the right idea, getting the key for his motorcycle on the wagon’s cart, a true classic from decades ago, a custom Cynthia Davidson model, bough in a junkyard and customize to his taste, the memory of Jesse bringing the possibility that it could’ve belonged to someone that died in an accident cheers me up a little, he cherishes that motorcycle so much, and to think how he tried to sell it for money.

The remain of the city follows the same pattern, crowds of gangs, runaways, guys and gal rocking ripped bodies , turned off neon billboards and a awful brightness for a place that has the word ‘’dark’’ in its name. Ahead of the park the avenue gives access to several residential streets, the terrain so flat that I can see homes miles away, Mom calls it the ‘’Diamondback’’ where the rich lives, near the beach and the city’s center, the poor lives near the mountains, and below.

Jesse seems unpleased by the idea of meeting Grandma, crossing the arms and shaking the legs, to be honest, I can’t recall much of her and I understand his disinterested by it, she meet him the day he was born , almost fifteen years ago, even leaving the in the same day, Grandma refuses to leave the house for the past fifty years, she didn’t even show up for mine or Michael birth, so one can imagine everyone surprise when that old lady ring our apartment. Although, it seems cruel of a grandparent to do such thing, she never hide the distance between us, her and mom had many issues and it strained further the day she discovered about Michael’s pregnancy, I still remember the day she call and mistaken me for mom, ‘’Hey, did you or the kids die yet?’’, when a negative answer came, the call ended.

It must be hard for mom to have no one else to turn to help, forced to live with her three children in their grandmother’s house in some backwater Las Californias town. However, its amazing how Grandma agreed to offer us shelter in the first place. I have the best memory between the four of us and even with this quality, I recall little of her, a reddish brown hair woman with the same eyes as mine, although I’m not expecting a graceful elder lady serving milk and cookies, I hope that we ain’t digging yourselves in a house that will be plagued by constant discussions, it may be a sign of weakness, yet I no longer can’t take violence and screams, at least for the next months.

The stimulating from earlier vanishes as quick as it came, turning into the only clues of nature in this place. Bleached from the sunshine, overcrowded by rangy flora, almost if this place segregates from the rest of the city, who could’ve guess that’s the same location from forty minutes ago, a harsh, yet positive chance, I only hope Michael didn’t forgot to put on googles. Following an inclined road, and a eerie view of a ravine by the right, the Andrei matriarch house shows itself by the cliff. Large wooden poles laying around, forming symbols that fails to be familiar, some are craved to resemble animals, one type is the trident poles, it means ‘’Algiz’’, belonging to the Elder Futhrark runic alphabet, its use to offer protection and security, surrounding the fence project that seems untouched in decades. A six foot pentagram forged in metal hangs on the arc by the entrance.

Mother parks the car in front of the eight steps wood stairs leading to the porch, a delicate two people size swing agitates by wind, no doubt Jesse’s thinking how much this resembles the Knowby Cabin, although it’s larger and with luck no evil book in the basement. A shed ahead seems to act as a garage, however its impossible to go any further, as all manners of bizarre symbols and ornaments blocks the passage, some are unfinished poles or craving of the symbols around the property. Dolls head are hanging on the trees, their eyes replaced by shards of mirror, crosses made of wood circles around, either grandma’s trying to keep the evil in, or out, guess we’ll see soon.

This house, or cabin, it’s something else, to be mild. The design dates back to the two thousand, yet the construction pattern from the today is strong with this one, large windows, brown and neutral colors, lack of vibrant ones and a double glass door featuring seven tiles in a pair of segment top and solid, whatever it means, I read once about it in a magazine that explained about it, it was the same door, it seems heavy and sturdy, way to thick for the house of an elder lady edging her eighty years.

All is so quiet, Mom stares around, from her blink less eyes she’s expecting something to occur. Michael climbs down , going a few steps ahead before freezing, staring at the porch hidden for my vision.

A pair of legs sprawled out, wearing a worn out slipper. On the floor, Grandma’s impaled by a short wooden pole, right through her chest. The body lies below an aluminum plate, crushing the fragile body, a brick broken in half close to her head indicates how it happened.

An absurd amount of crimson blood overflows the porch, dripping on the stair as he eyes are wide open, and the tongue already purple, spread out on the right corner of the lips. Michael pupils dilated as if he saw his soulmate, while Jesse quint ahead, shaking the head and sitting on the part of the porch untouched by the substance. Mom sighs and kneels.

‘’Mom?’’ Michael’s unruffled about it, stepping back.

‘’Great, she died, how’ bout we sell this and go back to Detroit?’’ Jesse ignores a answer and takes Xeno out .

‘’Syrup mixed with red dye’’ Mom wheeze in disappointment, showing us the scheme, as the stake proves to be a mere piece of foam ‘’Mom, get up’’

The former corpse comes to live, removing the false eyeballs and laughing, like if anyone found it funny.

‘’Did a damn good job this time’’ the elder put her glasses back on, coughing the red syrup that invade the mouth.

Mom embraces her, still it doesn’t make the situation better or helps me to forget about the silly prank. The air get stuck in my throat, as if invisible hands strangulates me, I could pay the same way, fall on the floor and pretend to be dead, that would make us even, good thing Mom gave me such a good education.

She opened both main door, allowing the boys to bring in the boxes. Unpacking it’s the easier part about it, every appliance and furniture we owned was sold to either pay the lawyers or the bills, plus most of our belongings were left behind. We couldn’t afford a true moving trailer to bring everything, so everything ended up on the general store balcony, not even Jesse rare comic books escaped the fate, good thing Mom raised us in a bohemian style, avoiding implants, neural links and eletronics, instead letting us focus on physical things, I still remember about high school, while the others had their fancy neural implants, I resorted to dusty books fabricated in the past century, a few nicknamed me ‘’Time Traveler’’, teasing all the time about the peculiar way my family lived, I don’t miss school or technology.

The last books in the wagon are the rest of my books and Mom’s vinyl collection, tunnels to the past. Weird how much life changed over such a short time, it feels scary to be on this highway, things can go over the weather so quick, I had good memories about those vinyl, if only Dad hadn’t blighted it, once he kicked the door of my room because the music was too loud, wielding that leather leash that hurted so bad, the metal parts were heavy and wide, meant to cause bruises and with enough force, broken bones, the final hit would hurt me the most, as if each hit I would shrink, getting smaller and smaller, the final one gave me some nasty purple bruise on the back of my neck, a soreness that last for almost one week, in a few occasions I would catch my reflection during shower and see the damage on my back and shoulders , one more reason for a silly teenager to be disgust with her body.

‘’You alrigh’?’’ Mom pulls me off the trance, petting my shoulder and smiling, I know she means well and I’m not ashamed to talk about feelings, yet I can’t shake off the feeling of shame, as if she knows something quite embarrassing about me, I don’t want people pitying me or mentioning all the time what happened, on the other hand there’s nothing I wish more that to be given a lot of attention.

‘’Darling, you’th only woman that got nothing in a divorce’’ Grandma smokes a jet, grape flavor, a horrible smell raises.

‘’I know, but the guy had nothin’ to take, and I didn’t wanted a huge fight’’Mom takes off one box, putting on the floor before organizing everything in a weight order’’We didn’t need more fight’’

That’s my queue to leave, before they starts to referring to me in the third person as if I’m not present.

Inside, those two are already jumping around and exploring the first floor. Two bathrooms, one upstairs and other below the stairs, four bedrooms and a thick door blocking the access to the basement, eight padlocks and four locks, none of the fancy electronic codes or locks, just the vanilla way people used to do it. A woman living in a isolated house on the hill inviting people to live with her, talk about The House On The Skull Mountain.

The place’s a mess, to be delicate about it. Melted candles stick on the chandeliers, long ago since cleaned, weird symbols hanging around the living room, plants with vines and covered by thorns, the awfull scent of religious aroma and the essence of jet grape smoke. A true alternative nightmare, to add further, the huge statues of owls and wolfs don’t make things better in any degree, up on the wall a taxidermy head of a bear stares at me all the time, as if those glass eyes are following each step, and watching over the entrance.

It’s cozy, won’t lie about it, a certain charm mixing several styles and delusions. Aside from how muddle the house is, it’s clean enough, the wood floor shines and the decoration has no traces of dust.

Every room is a living tomb.

[alterhumanmusic]

'Part coyote, part faerie, Aidan is a musician and online persona with the goal of channeling ones therianthropy through song’. I Will Run is the first of their songs.

His YouTube channel can be found here. 

(Lyrics below)

Concrete and asphalt dominate my life Vacant human forms that cut like a knife 

Monotony is all there is to see Inside I am trapped and long to be free 

Inside I am wild 

I will run like a wild mare Stand and fight like the lonely bear Just give me the open air Set me free and I'll be there 

Inside myself I have a secret power I am strong and wild and never shall cower

I will run like a wild mare Stand and fight like the lonely bear Just give me the open air Set me free and I'll be there

Jungle, mountain, forest Just give me more yes

Prairie, Ocean, and Steppe Freedom in every step

Claws, and paws, and strong maws Talons, fur, and long maws

Inside I am wild

I will run like the wild mare (jungle mountain forest) Stand and fight like the lonely bear (just give me more yes) Just give me the open air (prairie, ocean, and steppe) Set me free and I'll be there (freedom in every step) 

Set me free and I'll be there 

I will run like the wild mare Stand and fight like the lonely bear Just give me the open air Set me free and I'll be there

I will run like the wild mare Stand and fight like the lonely bear Just give me the open air Set me free and I'll be there

[aprillikesthings]

Between coming back from the Camino and not having any current hyperfixations I can feel my brain spinning a wheel in my head trying to latch on to old ones to look for some damn dopamine lolol

THAT SAID I am strongly considering taking a local class in making stained glass because I realized that of the visual art I've seen in my life that's made me cry and Feel Things the first time I saw it, it's been stained glass more than once, and that's a thought seriously worth pursuing, especially since the classes are surprisingly inexpensive

(the glass itself to make it is pricey as fuck, but thankfully as a beginner I'd only be making small things anyway)

And I know people with ADHD starting a new hobby always think "what if this turns out to be The Hobby, my lifelong Thing" but I am itching to learn enough about gothic stained glass specifically that I could copy it. Also there's multiple studios for making it locally; I don't have to have my own equipment.

Bahaha can you imagine getting a Laurel in the SCA* bc you learned to make medieval-style stained glass, like imagine having to cart a whole-ass rose window to an event along with pictures of you making it and documentation of how it was made at the time**

Anyway while I was in Spain I joked on facebook about making a persona that's a middle-class English woman from the 1300's or 1400's that's super religious and constantly on pilgrimage, like literally just a knock-off of Margery Kempe*** that's less given to being obnoxious, also it would give me an excuse to make a late medieval pilgrim's outfit, and also wouldn't it be fun to do the Camino again but in those clothes (...but with modern shoes****)

(*SCA: Society for Creative Anachronisms, a fairly-large decades-old medieval re-enactment group that is all over the USA, Canada, and plenty of other places; I used to attend events now and then. Laurel: the non-combat equivalent to a knighthood, requires you to not only have extensive, demonstrable knowledge of How People Did Things Back Then, but also that you can teach other people to do said things and judge the results; I once met a person who got a Laurel for researching and learning how to do a specific kind of juggling, I saw another get one for costuming whose outfit (when I saw her) was one I recognized from a specific piece in a French Book of Hours! **This is actually relatively easy to do, there was a monk in the 1100's who wrote a whole book called "On Various Arts" that included glassmaking. ***Margery Kempe wrote/dictated the first autobiography in English. She was given to religious visions, and also screaming and crying hysterically during mass or while thinking about Jesus. Anyway she went on pilgrimage to multiple places, including Santiago. ****look medieval people didn't have to deal with 90% of the Camino being gravel or asphalt, okay; plus the middle-class-and-up pilgrims were often on donkeys)

[mossy-gravexx]

Excuse me

while I vent on this page.

But seriously,

I hate you.

yes you.

You know who you are, who you is, the one I write and wrote about.

You, who causes me to scribble like I'm in an insane asylum, markers on the walls, head spinning.

Yet I love it, and I love you.

No, I hate you.

You want your space? There's all the space outside of this world, but you choose to hold me in your own personal atmosphere within your thick skull. You could walk for miles, you could use all your sky miles, fly through time miles, to try and forget me.

You're so blind, like someone drew the blinds distort your view. Who's pulling the string? Who started this madness? Now you're nothing more then a marionette, as your puppet master has yet to be seen.

You love it when I tell you "I hate you". The way you can hear how much I care, behind those empty careless words.

You're the reason I toss and turn in my bed, waiting for sleep to drag me under, to have dreams filled with

You.

Us.

We.

I hate those dreams. I hate the false promises those dreams bring. - Then I wake up, and pour my morning coffee that's bold just like your persona, and I dump it down the drain. Sadly you aren't a cup of coffee, and no matter how hard I try, I can't dump you.

I hate that you have me stuck on you, like gum sticks to asphalt in mid July. I hate how I love how complicated everything is, and when we fight how messy and sloppy our words are like a melting ice cream cone, you'll always get that sticky water fall. Even if you know it's coming, nothing can protect you from the mess, or that late night text.

You're a mess, did you know that? A perfect mess, just enough clutter to make you feel welcome. And I hate it, how cozy it is in here, in the back of your head.

I have my calendar to mark the last days when I used to float to the front of your brain, those were the days.

Now I hang back with the "Take the trash out at 7pm" reminder...

"Hello...  I'm in here you know."

Incase you forgot to open up your ears and listen to me vent.

So excuse me again, while I try to break you out of this daze, and take you back to the days, when I was in the front of your head.

-Me