Endlessly: Doki Doki Literature Club Oneshots

Documents of a Missionary (Yuri/MC)

The sight of Yuri's finger at the very edge of the page, bent and poised to flip it pricked at the corner of my vision. I knew she had finished reading the pages already in front of us long ago, but I needed much longer to comprehend what exactly the words printed across them were silently depicting. Ocult practices? Human experimentation? I read and re-read the same few sections over and over, blinking furiously as though that would aid my comprehension of the whole twisted story unfolding before me.

Yuri leaned further into my shoulder, snuggling against me. I could suddenly feel her itching impatience. A fleeting pang of guilt poked at my stomach.

"Sorry," I murmured to her, leaning my head against hers. "I'm really slow..."

"I know," she whispered back-even thought there was no real need to in the solitude of her bedroom. "I'm just excited for you to read what comes next."

"Well, I'm probably gonna need a few more minutes," I muttered, squinting at the page. "This... Is insane." I added incredulously.

Yuri giggled. "I might as well do something productive to fill the time," she said, sitting up. "Could I get you some tea?"

"Sure," I nodded distantly. Yuri slid off her bed, leaving me to shiver internally at the sudden lack of her presence and warmth as she left the room.

I continued to read, my eyes flying dazzedly across the page. I reached the end of it sooner than I had initially anticipated, however, and felt it wrong to continue without Yuri, even though she had already read this book about a dozen times-more or less. Instead, I let my eyes explore her room, taking in the neat and prim aesthetic and composure of everything. The pictures on the walls full of people I didn't know nor recognize, the flowers and shining books on her desk. I smiled at the cleanliness and aesthetic pleasure inherent with it all. It was what you could expect from Yuri's room, and it was wonderful.

I shifted against the piled pillows I had been leaning against. Settling down, I felt something rough and sharp poke at my back. I pushed myself upwards and twisted around to examine the pillows. There, under the very bottom of the the once orderly pile was a sliver of dark browns. I pulled it out to discover it was a worn leather book, the cover of which was barren and showed no indication as to its purpose. I opened it to the sight of a page stock full of black ink curving into a handwriting I would know anywhere.

I smiled to myself. It was a journal. Yuri kept a journal.

My first instincts with it were to put it back under the pillows. It was her personal possession, a leather ventilation system to say that contained pages and pages of her mystical and poetic interpretation of the world.

Well, when you put it like that, it makes it all the more intriguing.

I skimmed through the first page, emphasis on skimmed, as I knew Yuri wouldn't want me intently prodding through her personal affairs. The first entry was composed of what any other opening entry to a journal would be: a basic outline of why the author decided to have one.

Yuri's was a bit different.

The Literature Club seems a very calm and collected environment, one I am very happy to have inserted myself in. I want to be an invested member, and I therefore feel obliged to create my own literature. And this is the purpose of this journal: to document the events of my life and slowly develop my own work of art.