CHAPTER VII: DISTRICT SEVEN


Ginseng Clarkson, 14;

District Seven Female, SHE/HER

- A WEEK BEFORE -


It was almost ridiculously easy to get out of Mr. Chaffinch's literature class at the end of each day. All Ginseng had to do was say she completed the work early and ask to use the restroom, and her teacher wouldn't even look up from the book he was engrossed in before dismissing her with a noncommittal wave of his hand. This empty period was always dedicated to an afternoon excursion exploring the woods in District Seven, venturing into uncharted territory without any adults bossing her around and breathing down her back.

Skipping last period was a stunt that Ginseng pulled most days of the week. This habit of hers usually meant that she'd have to go home alone, without Bohai and Mincho accompanying her. Ginseng's elder twin siblings were similar in the way that they both excelled in traditional academics, specifically within technical subjects, but that was where the similarities ended. Bohai's hair was bleached auburn, much to his father's disdain, while Mincho's was dark and silky, strikingly feminine and captivating. Bohai was incredibly soft-spoken, and Mincho was much more no-nonsense by a long shot. Even Ginseng herself found it difficult sometimes to believe they were twins.

Between her two siblings, Ginseng definitely had her preference. It was really no contest- she considered Bohai her best friend and most trusted comrade. Oftentimes she felt he was the only person she could truly confide in about everything, from her passions to her ambitions to her insecurities to her fears. Bohai was Ginseng's favorite between the twins, but if Mincho knew, she didn't seem to care. Her stoic nature, although callous, was actually incredibly helpful at times. For example, Ginseng knew that her elder sister disapproved of her skipping class, but she always kept her thoughts inside her head and out the ears of their parents. It was her parent's disapproval that Ginseng was ultimately the most afraid of.

As silly as it sounded, Ginseng was anxious for the day her parents would decide they had enough of her supposed naivety. Bohai and Mincho, although they strayed from the norm on occasion, were still conventional in their interests and their ambitions. They were practical in what they wanted to pursue, practical in their approach to life. In comparison, Ginseng was childish and irrational. According to her parents, the twins actually used their intellect and skill to the utmost potential whereas Ginseng decidedly did not, to put it kindly. In her parents' eyes, she was the stereotype of the careless, frivolous youngest sibling, unable (or straight-up unwilling) to live up to the expectations of her elder siblings despite being more than capable. Ginseng knew that she was just as smart as them; perhaps her grades didn't reflect that very well, but traditional schooling had never been her priority. She wanted to learn on her own terms; she valued freedom over stability, creativity over practicality.

Ginseng was a simple girl. All she wanted was to be herself; she wanted the independence to go at her own pace, the autonomy to do things her way, the flexibility to push the confines of societal expectations and limitations and operate solely on her own terms. And it was here, within the woods, that she found this liberation of hers. It was a haven, undisturbed, untouched by man and society, by the wishes and demands of her parents. Here she could be comfortable and be herself without fear of judgement.

She whooped loudly, throwing her head back and her laughter straight into the sky. This forest of foliage served as the perfect vessel for her near-boundless energy, acres upon acres of new, undiscovered land just waiting to be pioneered by Ginseng and Ginseng only. A place where she could embrace her personal rebellion. She sprinted deeper towards the heart of the forest, letting out an occasional hoot of joy here and there. In this idyllic pocket in District Seven, Ginseng felt perfectly lighthearted and unbothered.

At some point during her escapade, she reached an unfamiliar clearing within the woods. Rich spokes of light pierced through the tree leaves, casting shimmering patterns of gold on the uneven ground, like luminescent oil paint on a dirt canvas. Ginseng gazed up at the dancing trees in wonder, in awe of how alive it all felt. She was nothing more than a tiny, insignificant speck in the entire forest, but she desperately wanted to know more, understand more. As if she had not a single second to spare, Ginseng scurried up the closest tree, placing her hands and feet on the ridges of the tree like it was second nature. She scaled the tree with reckless grace, an entitled confidence that came only from familiarity.

Within mere minutes, Ginseng had almost reached the summit. Gingerly, she positioned herself onto the thinnest branch that would allow her weight, trying to make herself as light as possible. The wind made unruly knots in her black hair, teasing through it playfully as she gauged her distance from the ground with a glance— forty feet? Fifty? Ginseng quirked her lip to the side before deciding that it didn't matter. Nowhere to go but up.

Still staring at the ground, she reached out to hook her arm onto another branch but overestimated its distance. She put a hair too much weight on the branch- not enough to fall off the one she stood on, but enough to lose her balance. A sickening crack erupted from within her grip, and the entire branch plummeted. It almost took Ginseng with it, but luckily, she was able to hook her legs around the branch on which she had been standing, preventing herself from meeting an untimely demise on the forest floor. Shakily, she maneuvered herself into a stabler position. She peered down nervously at the aftermath of her miscalculation, gulping when she saw the fallen branch fifty feet below her. Well, nothing can be done now, she thought, and averted her eyes as if it would absolve her of the blame. As if nature would blame her in the first place.

Ginseng could climb up and down trees in the dark, but that near-miss proved to be more than enough excitement than she could handle for the day. Her pulse was rickety, and it felt as if her heart would beat out of her chest. She stayed still and collected herself for a few moments longer before resolving to commence the treacherous venture back to solid ground. This time round, Ginseng made sure to take it easy, climbing down the trunk with a patience that was foreign to her. As she neared the base of the tree, she could feel her nerves start to fade out of existence, when from the corner of her eye she saw a black shadow zip through the air like a bullet. She felt her blood run cold, and then hot. Before she could react, a frantic chirping sound flared out from the fallen branch. She shook her head and blinked, lips forming an "o" when she spotted the broken nest cushioned within the still-green leaves of the branch. Oh, shoot, she thought, eyes wide. There's a bird in that nest!

Abandoning her previous slow tempo, she scampered the rest of the way down, having already forgotten her oath of caution. She barreled towards the nest with alarming speed and knelt down next to it, the broken sticks and nuts on the floor creating harsh imprints onto the pads of her knees. Ginseng paid no mind to her discomfort; she was focused on only one thing. With a surprising gentleness, she cupped her hands together and scooped a baby bird from the nest. Ginseng's heart flooded with relief when she noticed that it was a cardinal, red and vibrant as a pomegranate. Good thing it's not a crow.

"Aw, poor thing," she cooed, her voice sticky with guilt. It couldn't have been more than a couple days old. She turned over the bird delicately and let out a sharp gasp when she saw its leg. It was crooked and broken, bent out at an unnatural angle like a disfigured twig.

"Well, that settles it! I'm taking you to the aviary," Ginseng announced to no one in particular. It wasn't like the bird could understand her, but a small part of her hoped that the sentiment translated somehow. She tucked the bird in the breast pocket of her jacket and began making her way out of the forest, heading back the way she came. If she were alone, she would've raced her way back up the slope with reckless abandon, but with the baby bird in her pocket she couldn't risk falling and crushing it between her body and the floor. She felt its faint heartbeat fluttering between the thin layers of her coat, a subtle reminder that she had more than just herself to watch out for now. As a consequence of her mistake, Ginseng was tasked with the responsibility to take care of this bird and nurse it back to health, and she was determined to do right by it.

In fifteen minutes she arrived at her family's bird sanctuary, just a few feet shy of the woods and a brisk walk from home. Ginseng and her siblings had the luxury of being able to grow up right next to nature, like most residents of District Seven. The aviary was run by her family, but Ginseng and her mother were its prime caretakers. Hopefully her mother wasn't tending to the menagerie right now; the last thing Ginseng wanted was to be berated with questions regarding why she wasn't with Bohai and Mincho.

Ginseng poked her head inside the sanctuary. She was met with the familiar sight of blooming kumquat trees, ripe with fragrance. Dotted alongside the pebbled path were bonsai trees tucked neatly in porcelain vases, their roots curvaceous and elegantly asymmetrical. Within the dark soil, the grass stood intertwined with impetuous, greedy wildflowers. The entire scene was breathtaking, alight with the fire of the red, afternoon sun through the glass panels of the sanctuary. Window chimes created pleasant vibrations through the air, fostering an even more tranquil atmosphere than the woods Ginseng had been frolicking in just an hour ago. It was a controlled haven, measured and delicate. She still preferred the woods, but the aviary was a cherished locale nonetheless. Her mother wasn't here; the coast was clear. Lucky! Ginseng cheered silently.

She maneuvered her way into the sanctuary as smoothly and quickly as she could. Weaving through the twisting path, she reached the nursery that was nested deep in the heart of the menagerie. She set the baby cardinal down on a soft blanket and got to work. With the supplies scattered hazardously across the workbench from last time, Ginseng quickly fashioned a makeshift stilt out of light balsa wood. She untied the white thread that had been tying back her hair, letting her tresses cascade over her shoulders. Ginseng held the thread firmly in place with her teeth as she aligned the wooden stilt with the bird's leg. Once it was precise to her liking, she took the thread and tied all of the pieces carefully together. By the time she was done, the cardinal looked like a present, albeit a little fragile and fluttering. She stepped back with her hands on her hips and smiled, satisfied.

However, before she could admire her handiwork, she heard an all-too-familiar, unwelcome caw! from behind her. Ginseng whipped her head around and came face to face with the most grotesque-looking bird she had ever seen. It was a crow, bigger than both her fists put together and an absolute menace. It hung on top of a bonsai tree, its girth threatening to spill the whole thing over. Paired with a macabre combination of razor-sharp talons and oily feathers, the only word that came to mind was hideous. Although the bird wasn't doing anything but minding its own business within the bird sanctuary, Ginseng felt her blood begin to boil. And before she could even register what had possessed her, she held the crow in the chokehold in front of her.

Ginseng clenched the crow crudely, her fingers sinking pointedly into the bird's flesh in a vice-grip. Its paunchy and bloated body were practically reduced to puddles of fat in her hands. The crow squawked in protest, thrashing desperately to escape Ginseng's hold, but to no avail. Zealously, Ginseng yanked her right hand away from the bird's body, tearing off a clump of oily back feathers with it. She also managed to sever its right wing almost entirely, the broken mass dangling meekly from a single connected joint. The crow croaked in pain, its noises growing fainter and fainter as Ginseng pushed in, crumpling the bird in on itself.

Eventually, its cries ceased entirely. There was no sign that the bird was still alive apart from the occasional flutter of its wing, a singular, knee jerk reaction to the pain. It was bruised, broken, and bloody all over, a product of Ginseng's merciless savagery. Her eyes glazed over the crow's body coolly before finally twisting its neck with the flick of her wrist. A gruesome snap echoed through the garden, and then it was over. Ginseng tossed its corpse carelessly into the soil of the bonsai tree. Eventually, the dead crow would decompose and disintegrate into nutrients for the tree. Without a doubt, it would be worth much, much more dead than it had been alive.

Ginseng heaved in and out, her pants growing softer as her icy rage slowly started to dissipate out into oblivion. She turned back around, focusing her attention back on the baby cardinal.

"Now," she said, cradling the innocent creature in her hands, "I'll make sure nothing hurts you in here, all right?" She caressed the baby bird's soft down-feathers with a deceptively gentle thumb, paying no mind to the gore that still remained on her hands. Under her breath, Ginseng hummed a gentle lullaby, staining the cardinal's coat with a deeper, darker shade of red.


Lucifer Bishop, 17;

District Seven Male, HE/HIM

- A WEEK BEFORE -


Red. All of it was red.

Lucifer fought in this underground battle ring almost nightly, grunting and sweating under the oppressive, neon-red lights that did little to illuminate anything. The searing scarlet flooded indiscriminately over the entire room. Lucifer could vaguely discern different figures through the haze, but he couldn't quite make out where one figure ended and another began. It was always difficult, if not plain impossible, to see whether blood had yet been spilt.

But it was no matter. Whether (or, more accurately, how much) blood he spilled on the ground didn't matter to Lucifer, as long as it was blood that belonged to his opponent. Lucifer couldn't afford to hold back; there was no limit he wouldn't surpass to exit the ring alive, even if that was at the cost of his opponent's life. He had one objective, and one objective only: to see her.

"Soon," Lucifer whispered under his breath. Hopefully this fight wouldn't take too long.

Across the ring stood a bulky, domineering man Lucifer had never met. Fuck, he couldn't even recall having ever seen him around before. Lucifer didn't even bother finding out the guy's name before hopping into the ring, fists clenched. Lucifer looked him up and down, sizing the man up. The man was pale, broad, and taller than Lucifer by a couple inches. He gauged that his opponent must have been around his mid 20s. There's no way he's older than me by that much, Lucifer thought, taking note of the brusque, sloppy way the other man paced as they both traversed around the ring's inner circumference in anticipation. The most striking thing about his opponent's appearance was the tattoo that was stitched across his collarbones. A pair of inky stag antlers stared boldly and menacingly from atop the man's white flesh.

Stag, Lucifer decided. It was a good nickname for the time being- not that Lucifer would ever have to use it again after this fight. Stag bared his teeth, snarling cruelly at the boy as if he had some sort of vendetta against Lucifer. Stag was doing his best to look threatening, but to Lucifer it just translated as overeager and clumsy.

Lucifer combed his hair back with his left hand, cloaked in a fingerless leather glove. His hair felt greasy with perspiration. The air stung with the metallic tang of corroded steel and humidity. A bead of sweat trickled down Lucifer's back, coasting through the jagged ridges of his spine. There was a sour note lingering in the air, and although unpleasant, it did little to distract Lucifer from his circumstance and his surroundings. He was nothing if not accustomed to the stifling atmosphere of the underground fight ring. This place was hell, and Lucifer knew a thing or two about hell.

In his sternum he could feel the deafening roar of the audience, barbaric and hungry for the showdown to begin. The referee blew on his whistle, its shriek shattering through the air like glass. "Come together," he barked, ushering Lucifer and Stag together to grip each other's hands. Without hesitation, Lulu advanced towards his opponent, Stag only doing so after a beat. Palm in palm, heads butted together, Lucifer and Stag tensely waited for the referee's signal.

"Osu!" The referee exclaimed.

Lucifer screwed his face painfully. "Osu!" he and Stag roared in response.

"Commence!"


Fourteen minutes, seventeen seconds. That was how long the fight lasted. Lucifer's eyes glazed over the crumpled body of his opponent, Stag's eyes long shut and his head laying in a dark puddle of… well, Lucifer knew what it was. He would recognize that gory fragrance anywhere. Bruises littered across Stag's body like constellations, and Lucifer was sure he bore matching galaxies.

He might be dead, Lucifer thought, slightly woozy. He might've booked this guy a premature visit to heaven, and the thought filled him with no sense of pleasure. But that wasn't his problem; Lucifer had other priorities to attend to, and the only angel he was going to see was the one waiting for him at the fight ring's brothel.

"Lucifer Bishop secures yet another victory, making him the gauntlet winner for the 34th consecutive week!" The referee bellowed, causing the audience to clamor ferociously in applause. Lucifer didn't even pay any mind; he was already making his way out of the ring, taking not even a single moment to catch his breath. He had to outpace the watchers his gang leader sent to follow him, lest he do something foolish like escape. Lucifer couldn't even entertain the idea of fleeing the gang-slash-cult; he was all too aware of the consequences that would be awaiting for him if he even tried it. Still, Lucifer wanted to be with her for a few unmonitored moments, even if they were fleeting. Rest comes later, he told himself.

Lucifer bolted out of the underground cavern, weaving dexterously through the dimly lit, narrow halls that fed out the tournament room like roots. It was a familiar path to a familiar destination- the brothel. There he would be reminded of what he had to fight for, what he had to live for. Eventually his route opened up to another cavern, moderate in size but embellished and bejewelled to the point of gaudiness. Lusty, amorous paintings lined the walls- decorum fit for a brothel, no doubt. Lucifer paid no mind to the interior design; hastily, he rapped his knuckles on the door of his private booth. A soft click followed shortly, and the door opened up to a gorgeous girl, her skin and hair dark and alluring.

"Henrietta," he said breathlessly. A coy smile appeared on Henrietta's face in response. She wore a loose shirt and was draped in a sheer chiffon scarf. Chaste for an ordinary prostitute, but Henrietta wasn't ordinary in any sense of the word. She technically served to be his "trophy", something to be conquered with each victory in the ring, but Lucifer could never look at her as if she was just an object, a possession. Henrietta meant much, much more to him than that.

In this underground world that reeked of sin and sweat, there was a hierarchy and an exchange system in place. It was one that Lucifer and Henrietta had to get accustomed to quickly to stay afloat in their rival gang's territory, tossed like raw meat to dogs by their own cult leaders. The Wanderers of the Forest forbade its soldiers from having relationships, for it demonstrated an inability to remain resolute in the face of distraction and temptation, So when someone found out about Lucifer and Henrietta's relationship and snitched, the punishment that followed was swift and severe. Initially, they were to be exiled and executed, but it seemed so much of a waste to kill two of the orphans the leaders had spent so long cultivating into child soldiers. So instead, Lucifer and Henrietta were demoted to bait, sentenced to inescapable exploitation and humiliation. Despite the fact that both of them could fight, Lucifer was sent to a rival gang as an undercover brawler and Henrietta an escort, for no reason other than the chauvinism that ran rampant in these parts. Their only purpose was to infiltrate the enemy's fight ring and prostitution system while the other Wanderers banked on the distraction to extract critical information from the rival's territory. As long as he and Henrietta proved to be useful, his cult would keep them both alive.

Several battles took place nightly, and Lucifer was the 34th consecutive gauntlet victor for his particular circuit. As a prize for winning, he got to visit the escort of his choice, but the sentiment was tasteless and almost laughable. The idea was that Lucifer would have to keep winning in order to keep Henrietta safe from the other brawlers who wanted to take advantage of her, as if she would let anybody besides Lucifer touch her in the first place. He knew that Henrietta could take care of herself, but Lucifer still had no intention of letting his streak at the ring falter. He just couldn't risk it.

"Lulu," she said, mocking his breathless tone. Lucifer couldn't help but laugh; he was just glad to see her. When it came to Henrietta, he could never be ashamed of his earnestness and his sincerity. Lucifer reached out to touch her face, and she leaned into the gesture. But before he could, Henrietta looked over and recoiled slightly. "Blood," she said.

"Ah, shit," he murmured, consolidating with a handless peck on the cheek instead. "Forgot about that."

"Not yours?"

"Well…" Lucifer said blankly. "Does it matter? I'm standing here."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Before Lucifer could respond, her head seemed to snap to the side, listening intently for something. It took Lucifer a second to register the footsteps in the distance that were echoing louder and louder with every passing second. "The watchers are almost here," she whispered. "Get in." Without waiting for a response, she took Lucifer by the wrist and ushered him inside the room.

Swiftly and precisely, Henrietta jammed the door shut and twisted the lock in place. It was rusted and weak, but rarely ever did it get disturbed. After all, locks on brothel booths only served one purpose.

It took a moment for him to realize that Henrietta had Lucifer pinned against the door, her muscular arms acting as barricades against his sides. He felt his face redden; had she planned this?

"H-hey," he sputtered. Henrietta blinked and cocked her head, diverting her attention towards him at once. "What?" she asked bluntly, but her voice was devoid of any malice. She seems distracted, Lucifer thought.

He tapped lightly on the insides of her elbows, where the skin was thin and warm. She blinked again and dropped her arms almost immediately, releasing Lucifer from his confines. "My bad." She narrowed her eyes at him, smirking. "What're you blushing for? Goofy ass."

Lucifer and Henrietta had grown up in an ugly, rigorous environment, and as a result were all too familiar with the explicit sides of adulthood, all the violence and vulgarity it entailed. Despite this, Lucifer's affections towards his girlfriend were still quite wholesome and awkward in an endearing sort of way. He tried to share her smile, but he knew there was something bothering her. Something was off.

"Henri, what's bothering you?" Lucifer said.
"Huh?" she said, raising her eyebrow questioningly. "Nothing's bothering me."

Drifting around the dusky room, Lucifer fidgeted with the sparse furniture and knickknacks, organizing what was already orderly to begin with as a way to keep himself busy. "I know you're lying." Lucifer said, lowering his voice as much as he could so the watchers outside wouldn't hear.

Henrietta's lip started to waver. "I…" she started, but no words came out after that. Lucifer knew she didn't like to speak unless she was sure her voice was going to hold steady, and it seemed like whatever was bothering her was going to be a difficult subject to talk about. He went back across the room to her side, sitting both of them down on the rickety mattress.

"You don't have to say anything," he said from under his breath. Nodding wordlessly, she squeezed his arm tightly with one hand and tugged at his shirt with the other. Lucifer understood.

He took his shirt off, folding it neatly before setting it onto the bed. Lucifer turned away from Henrietta and allowed her to place her cool hands on his back, chills running down his spine on impact. She began to write something out on his back with her finger, Lucifer lingering attentively on every stroke.

The gestures were simple. Her finger scripted with intent, taking care to ghost over the whip scars on his back that Lucifer and Henrietta both shared- the lashings the Wanderers gave them for prioritizing each other over the cult. Punishment for love and loyalty. Lucifer never formally learned how to read, conditioned to be nothing more than a mindless soldier, unable to think for himself. Henrietta was trained with the hopes that she'd prove to be a pivotal confidant, but her eventual betrayal only made her schooling seem like a waste. Not to Lucifer, though. Nightly visitations to Henrietta's booth following his fights were often used to teach the boy how to read and write. It was no easy feat to get a 17 year-old to basic literacy, but Henri convinced him it was for herself as much as it was for him. And with no pen, no paper, and ears all around, this was the only way they could communicate without fear of being monitored. Tracing letters from finger to skin, backs like empty chalkboards ready to receive scripture.

She took her hand off her back. A pause, a space. She let the beat pass before resuming.

Another letter. A shaky breath. More letters.

Silence.

Slowly, he turned his body around to face her. Henrietta's eyes were rimmed with red, but there were no tears. "Too tough to cry," Lucifer remembered her saying years before, when times were simpler. Henrietta wasn't crying now, but he couldn't deny the pained, heart-wrenching expression on her face. There was a storm gathering behind his eyes. He stared straight ahead at Henrietta, tenderly but resolutely.

"You're… what?" he asked, his voice patient but unfaltering. Lucifer tried to find the right word in his head, something vague enough to fool eavesdroppers but telling enough to let Henrietta know he understood. "...sick?"

She nodded, the movement almost imperceptible in the dim light. The words that came out of her mouth told a different story completely, purposely misleading. "Of course not," she said. "I wouldn't be here servicing you if I was sick, would I?"

Henrietta took a sharp breath, causing something to twist painfully in Lucifer's chest. Henrietta had always been so strong in his eyes. She still was, extraordinarily so. She took the lead and steered without hesitation, nothing but pure will to survive driving her every move. Knowing that she was carrying such a heavy burden by herself, Lucifer felt useless.

"I… What can I…" Lucifer tried to rise to his feet, but she pulled him back down with the grip of a soldier. "You can't," she asserted. "You can't do anything." Her eyes were steely and her voice was hard with a tragic kind of resoluteness. Acceptance. "There's no point."
As much as Lucifer wanted to object, he knew deep in his core that she was right. And he despised it. He despised all of it, from the filthy underground fighting ring to the rival gang to the Wanderers and everything in between. It was all so fucked, but it was the only thing Lucifer had ever known. He wanted nothing more than to leave the system behind, to get himself and Henrietta out of this hellhole. But he didn't have the slightest clue how to escape or even what to do once they left, because he never had the opportunity to think for himself- not truly, anyway. Lucifer's entire life had been spent on autopilot, drifting from one mission to the next, carrying out orders from higher-ups. He was conditioned with one command, and it was to obey; yet, even when he broke one of the sacred laws, Lucifer couldn't seem to extract himself from the cult. These days, his sole objective was to flee, hand in hand with Henrietta, but if he didn't know anything about life outside the cult, where would he even start? How could he formulate a plan like this?

Lucifer couldn't think of anything more frustrating than being aware of his own shortcomings and not being able to do anything to amend for them. It was a gross stagnancy and his own private purgatory, in which Lucifer was not the king of hell but rather, one of its forgotten souls.

A silent myriad of sorrys reverberated through Lucifer's head, all dedicated to Henrietta. He embraced her softly, and soundlessly he shed the tears that Henrietta wouldn't let herself shed, saying nothing as they slipped into her dark, coily hair.

Henrietta was right. Lucifer could do nothing. They were going to suffocate in this system, damned to an endless cycle of death and rebirth each night for as long as Lucifer emerged unscathed from his battles. He knew that, ultimately, this struggle would amount to nothing.

But as long as Henrietta was alive, Lucifer couldn't afford to lose.


DISTRICT SEVEN REAPINGS

July 4th, 12:03 PM

Female Slot: Ginseng Clarkson - 3 slips

Male Slot: Lucifer Bishop - 6 slips


a/n: hi guys entp sunday strikes again. this is the longest i've ever kept a schedule, are you guys proud of me? actually don't answer that. introducing ginseng and lucifer my motherfucking kids. [daps up fanfiction users paradigm and timesphobic] from the bottom of my heart thank you for subbing them They Are The Light Of My Life And I Adore Them. also BIG GRATITUDE TO LINDS AND GOLDIE FOR BETA READING EVERY WEEK LIKE THEY ALWAYS DO! i very much appreciated the feedback this week uwu

q: what is the meaning of life.

$wag im out this bitch,

bronkasaurus