Realistic or Modern 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞 — a 1x1

[demonology]

ronnie + zeki

a 1x1 by bad end + demon

spiked reverie

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[demonology]

V

filler! ignore

V

filler! ignore

• aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
• aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

• 
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  veronika

  
  
  
  

  a pestilence.

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  mood

  
  

  spacey but alive

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  location

  
  

  on stage

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  outfit

  
  

  tank [x] , skirt [x], shoes [x], accessory [x]

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  song

  
  

  amphetamine - everclear [x]

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  tag

  
  

  miyabi

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  Kernels of sawdust glommed onto her index, sticky to the pad. Countless sinews, spots where the fibers melded to create curvature. Resistible to breaking, even after being run through a machine. Chopped, hacked. She crushed the bits with her thumb, brushing them into her fingerprint, causing a splinter, before relinquishing them to the floor.
  
  "Ronnie?"
  
  Slow, deliberate with necessary extra thought, she moved. Her eyes struggled, but they finally glued on the person speaking. "Yeah?"
  
  "Drink," the stranger told her. A messiah.
  
  "Thanks," she whispered, taking the liquid in greedily. Pepsi.
  
  "Y'all got this on tap?" she questioned, as though the caffeine snapped into her synapses immediately. The cold added rigidity to her muscles, cooling her blood back to life. The stage lights her head lamps.
  
  Plastic crinkled next to her, and suddenly the fur-lining suffocated her. "Too much," she smiled, mouth forming too close to the words in her natural tongue. "Thanks, baby."
  
  "Love you too, bitch," Penny told her, lightly kicking at her wrist in a display of affection. "Shake the xanax out of your system."
  
  "Aye aye, Captain," Ronnie shot back with a corporal signal. Sharp and clear.
  
  Stormy eyes rolled, thundering over her mood and turning her face serious. "Cut the attitude, you animal."
  
  Penny was gone, abandoned her in favor of her instrument. Drummers, Ronnie though off-handedly. Her heart rolled its attention in a careless way, deciding either her friend adored her or didn't and choosing to let the drugs decide which. Either way, it wouldn't be her fault, she reasoned.
  
  The Pepsi disappeared, then the water. Her bladder, however, appeared with a fierceness, but so did her call-time.
  
  

  ---

  
  Resin of mottled drinks and old scars painted the interior of her lungs. Countless screams unshed, leaving the walls marred and stained. Beaten at the threat of an outcry, and she stands here now. Barren, masterful, and hungry. Her eyes scour, a smirk flashes, and Penny begins her count-in. The words, well-memorized and begging to be screamed. Sang, rather, in front of ears that will remember them. Suck them in like they are welcome in, offered a plate of cookies and a promise not to be eaten by the Big Bad Wolf.
  
  Veronika owned every crowd. A separation between who could be and who was allowed this, but so did her undeniable talent. Skill she was aware of, painfully so for anyone forced into her inner-circle. A spot in her bottomless, yet gated heart costed a tinge of patience for such a self-aware, borderline pretentious musician.
  
  Ronnie chose to believe she was worth the price and more.
  
  Penny would argue otherwise.
  
  As would the sucker sitting at the bar.
  
  Ronnie loved a good, hearty debate, though, so the sight of him injected her with further enthusiasm, instead of less.
  
  The stand put into passivity, and motion became kinetic. A kick, the removal of her jacket, and the over-zealous playing of her guitar. A flame plundering the stage, and yes, she is here to annoy you. Specifically you, she thought. Her voice cracked as she turned into a screech at the end, building into the chorus.
  
  I am a liar. Her mind moved with the song, pondering. Thinking always found her on stage, as though the escapism pushed her too far into the realm of enlightenment. History showed a good performance could bring tears from her eyes. An altar for her to pray to, reflect and become more Veronika. Doubtful.
  
  Vision swirled, and a messy expanse of color behind the lids. Lyrics spitting from betwixt teeth, a snarl in the form of a butterfly. Melodrama, truthfully, but she did ask me.
  
  Penny's drumming remained constant, a time-keeper to this rock-and-roll expression of jazz-like free-style. A slight change in the guitar's chording and a difference in bass-playing styles. A whole new song, different from the shitty one she'd recorded in the bathroom of her dorm. She'd asked me to come clean.
  
  Disappointment, a lighter to self-immolate with. Surprisingly faux-sobering, allowing for clarity. A smoldering gaze, remnants from her realization, directed to the man in the crowd. A toothy smile, and the wave of Penny's playing sucks her back in, fingers twiddling and vocal chords stringing.
  
  The song finished with a flourish, moving quickly into the next one. A request from the crowd, and for once, Ronnie is agreeable.
  
  At least, she tried to make the first part of the set perfect. At the very least.
  
  

  ---

  
  The bar's speakers chirped, shooting out static. She plopped into the spinning chair at the counter, quickly pulling out the last cigarette from her pack. The lucky one, flipped the opposite way and left lonesome. The click of her Bic fails once, then twice. Shaking it, a third try. Leaning over with a smile, she spoke to the curls fluffing off the back of his head.
  
  "Got a lighter, sweetheart?" she asked, tone taunting.

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

♡design by dreamglow, coded by uxie♡

 

[miyabi]

scroll

zeki.

GET ME OUT OF HERE

interactions

demonology

He’d survived the chaos of God’s will far too many times to count; from the time he’d first touched light at birth to the gashes across his back, a bruised and battered boy atoning for the sins of his father. And maybe then it was fate, that he survive even the most treacherous of paths despite destiny’s call for the opposite. His years had only unfolded in front of him, fat and lean, belly full of memories that only recently go untouched; Zeki’s mind, though it chattered with the recognition of pain, never tread the path it built for itself. The man had only managed to make his attempts at pulling the roots, weeding and plowing the crops that grow just above the mind’s surface; they beckoned his hand, but he was never strong enough.

The figure that stared back at him through the chipped, lipstick-covered mirror was a man screaming for freedom. A feeling; it drapes itself over his shoulders, the subconscious comfort he lends himself before succumbing to the emotion reeling in his chest. And it is only then that he reaches a hand to the mirror, palm against mirrored palm; dark eyes searching for bodily recollection before he has to bring himself to the atmosphere awaiting him only a few meters from the bathroom door.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

His elbows shake, takes the rest of his arms with him as he only bends forward, splashing cold water onto his cheeks. Anxiety, while it welled in the back of his throat, only seemed to be far more prominent in these settings. The seedy venue, drunken patrons, bodies clashing against bodies, lips against lips; far too many people, with only his brain barely comprehending the thought of this: why did he agree? Agreeance had only come due to the promise of forgetting; forgetting the issues with rent; forgetting that he must fight to keep himself afloat; fighting to forget that he, as daring and strong as he presents, is only the product of his self-preservation—not the truth that falls behind the tired, sullen eyes.

“Hey! Hey, man, you good in there? Takin’ a shit or somethin’?” A voice calls out for him, a flurry of knocks battering against the locked metal door.

Thoughts perish here; he shakes himself from the visible worry and plasters his eyes to the door, chewing on the skin of his lip that now bleeds. “Yeah, I’m good. Wouldn’t you like to know, dipshit?” Calloused fingers fall to his lip, wiping away the metallic taste. He shut off the water, listened to it come to a slow stop before patting down his clothing, hiding away any indication of inner struggle.

Brightly colored lights burn the corneas as he exits the bathroom, arms encased by overly eager, overly excited hands. Then a face, expression plastered solid against his cheeks, “you thought you could get away that easy, eh? Bet you were looking for a getaway.” A single arm wraps around Zeki’s shoulder, a struggle for his companion as he stood on near tip-toes, “ain’t no windows ‘round here, bud.”

Zeki noted that earlier. Had it been the smell of swamp ass or the thick miasma that only seemed to coat his lungs the longer he stood in there, Zeki couldn’t differentiate it. They were the same, both inhibiting a stark reaction from him, “when was the last time they cleaned it?”

“Beats me. Nah, don’t even worry about that, man. Enjoy the music, the view.”

“What fucking view, Emil,” he responds coldly, sliding the scrawny arm away from him.

“Geez, who shit in your cereal?”

There’s that phrase again, the one that never quite caught on with Zeki; who was shitting in people’s cereal for that to be a phrase? A thick brow rose in both confusion and half-annoyance, drink pushed into his empty hands; alcohol stung against the papercut on the back of his thumb-knuckle, the splash rendering him farther into the pit of annoyance and inconvenience. “Wha—” a pungent smell knocked the wind out of him, pulled itself back, and singed the ends of his nose hairs. “What is that?”

“A good time. Drink up and follow me,” Emil has his shoulder again, a struggling Zeki making various attempts to sip at the bitter liquid. Disgusting. If this is what Emil counted as a good time, there must have been something exponentially wrong with the guy that Zeki didn’t already know about. Hell, for all he knew, Emil could’ve done something extra to it—and without any single doubt, Zeki had already brought it to his lips and swallowed, feeling the burn against the wound on his lip; it trickles and he feels every bit of it, all the way down to his stomach—a burning sensation settling at the bottom before they regroup with the rest.

"This is the mentally ill version of a good time, Em," Zeki gets the chance to utter this phrase, the look of amusement molded onto the lips of the rest of the friends, all of which take in the sight of Zeki actually doing something they tell him to.

Music becomes the centerpiece of his attention; admittedly, it was better than most of the musical acts there. Eons better, but the moment he'd laid eyes on its perpetrator, the feeling had passed instantaneously. The expression is not hard to find, even under the curled tufts of deeply colored hair frumpily folding over his eyes. It had only gotten worse the moment it ended, not that he'd openly admit that it was good. In any sense of the term, that was.

He turns away from the stage, sips on the harsh, mouth-puckering drink.

She, much like any other person here, had been the product of 4 billion years of life; only this, her presence, the grating feeling of her near, was nowhere near wondrous. One click. Two clicks. Three clicks; how many more? Zeki counted far too many in his head already, felt the rush of air as she leaned to him; the stench of cigarettes, unlit, swept his nostrils in one breath. "You could ask someone else, sweetheart," the last word feels heavy on his tongue, leaving a foul taste.

It was typical of Emil to interject, giving a nudge before digging into Zeki's his pockets; a scuffed-up, forest green lighter procured from dark jeans. "Sorry about him, he's uh. Grumpy," Emil must have been humored, found relief in this moment as he outstretches the lighter.

"Grumpy?" A scoff, Zeki reins in the effort to let Emil's actions slide. "Dümbük, you took the shit right out of my pocket."

"Yeah, for the lovely lady." The audacity, Emil must have felt especially bold as he leaned against the counter, a flirtatious smile riddled on pale lips, "y'know. If you're not interested in my friend here, I'm free. Single. Ready to mingle."

"We let him off his leash once and, well," a vague gesture is made in Emil's direction, one caught on by his counterpart, "you just witnessed what happens."

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[demonology]

V

filler! ignore

V

filler! ignore

• aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
• aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

• 
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  veronika

  
  
  
  

  a pestilence.

  
  
  

  
  
  
  
• 
  
  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  

  mood

  
  

  spacey but alive

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  location

  
  

  on stage

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  outfit

  
  

  tank [x] , skirt [x], shoes [x], accessory [x]

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  song

  
  

  amphetamine - everclear [x]

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  

  tag

  
  

  miyabi

  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  The pivot point formed between her fingers, index and middle, squelched, forcing the Marlboro Menthol upright. She continued to click it, allowing it to become a catapult for tobacco and rolling paper. Her expression changed at his subtle dig. Turning her words into sharpened quills, a fuzzy-pokey porcupine. Cautiously, as though afraid of the swill of her brain’s toxins, her brow allowed the puppet’s string to pull it to an edge. A small point, an animal’s knife of her own.
  
  The same strings tugged at the symmetrical corner of her lips. A smirk. The rough draft of her target finally gave relief, offering a flame to light upon. With the cigarette hanging out her mouth, Veronika leaned across the bar to the man’s extended arm. Blatantly, she invaded the incredibly tall version of the dwarf Grumpy, inhaling and puffing out a drag as she sat back.
  
  “Thanks, hon,” she gave a wink towards the gruffer, grubbier man who lacked much of the malformed gentleman-ness the other had.
  
  Ronnie shifted her eyes, set in a narrow, almost relaxed pose. Yet, they stood unblinking, eyeing the road, and studying the dead corpse just across. They hang above, watching over the highway, its dominion, except all there is to see is a man drowning in a pothole. Are you that man? Her gaze squelches with the question, running over the sinkhole at 80 mp. Windswept, she blinks, releasing him.
  
  “You’re cute,” she offered the other young man. Her cadence was surprisingly kind, along with her eyes. “Unfortunately, I prefer when men don’t take a light as an invite to attempt an invasion on my evening, let alone my romantic life.”
  
  Finally, the mop-haired statue spoke once more, gilded over a drink. She gave a small giggle at his joke, pliant and yielding. With her free hand, she fluffed her hair and spiked her bangs. Taking another drag, Ronnie ashed the cigarette as she spoke, “You make a habit of befriending wild animals?”
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
  

♡design by dreamglow, coded by uxie♡