#But I think I sound good on medium speed and tone

[idontliketomatoesleavemealone]

I really like my singing voice rn

[juniperskye]

Until I Found You

***Potential spoilers of The Rookie***

Pairing: John Nolan x Fem Reader

Sneak Peek: After his breakup with Bailey, John is convinced he will never fall in love again…that is until he found you. (This is taking place pre TO Nolan) Reader owns a Café (food truck).

Fluff/Angst

Word count: 2851

Warnings: Reader has kind of spooky vibes, no use of y/n, Implied age gap, mention of food and eating (no explicit details), brief mention of crime (no explicit details), mention of past relationships, mention of unhealthy relationships, mention of getting ready for a date (details are feminine leaning – shaving, makeup, nails, hairstyling), developing strong feelings quickly, one teeny tiny kiss.

Not edited - please be kind.

I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story.

After his breakup with Bailey, John was convinced he wouldn’t find love again. How would it be fair for him to have had love with Sarah, Lucy, Jessica, Grace, Bailey and for him to expect it again. His love with each of those women differed from one another, but they all had played a very important role in his life. For the last few months John had really just been going through the motions; sleep, work, eat, repeat.

Today had been a particularly slow day on the job for John, very unusual for the LAPD. He had been riding alone today which was honestly making the day drag on even more so. He was counting down the minutes until lunch – at least then he would get to socialize with his fellow officers.

Two speeding tickets, one robbery and a stolen car later, it was finally time for lunch. Heading to their usual spot, John notices that there is a new food truck parked, black with orange script on the side spelling out “Hallowed Grounds” alongside little white painted bats. John’s eyes were drawn to this truck not because it is new, or that the line was at least fifteen people long, but because of the beautiful person running the window.

It was Lucy who had ultimately broken John out of the trance he was in.

“Hey, you okay? You were spaced out there for a second.” Lucy questioned.

“Huh? Yeah, I’m okay. What’s with the new truck?” John wanted to see how much Lucy knew without giving away the attraction he was feeling towards this stranger.

“Oh! It is all over social media, Hallowed Grounds, it is mostly coffee, but the pastries are to die for! I mean literally that is their slogan!” Lucy laughed.

“The line is pretty long, so it must be good. Should we check it out?”

“Sounds good to me!”

With that, John and Lucy made their way to the line. Lucy was talking John’s ear off about some new social media drama, but honestly John wasn’t listening, he was far too distracted by your beauty and the honey sweet tone of your voice. You had this way about you that was breathtaking, moving with grace and just so patient and kind to all the patrons who had been waiting in line. They were finally nearing the front of the line, and John had realized he hadn’t even looked at the menu.

“Hi there! What can I get for you?” You smiled at him.

“Hi, can I get a medium caramel latte and a lemon blueberry scone?” Lucy ordered with no hesitation.

“Of course! And for you?” You looked expectantly at John.

“I um, can I just get a black coffee and, no that’s all.” John stuttered.

Lucy looked over at him confused as she paid, and they walked over to stand near the pickup window. John took note of you disappearing from the window and a young man taking your place.

“Okay, I know that we did not just stand in that long line just for you to order a black coffee. What is up with you?” Lucy questioned John. “OH MY GOD! You think she’s cute, don’t you?”

“Okay, hush! I’d rather not scare the girl off before I even get a chance to talk to her.”

“Okay sorry! I’m just happy for you. You’ve been sulking ever since you and Bailey broke things off.”

“I have not been sulking…okay maybe I have. But I really thought she was it for me.”

“John and Lucy?” You called.

They made their way up to the window to pick up their orders.

“Alright Lucy, a caramel latte and a lemon blueberry scone, and for John a black coffee and a chocolate croissant.” I hope you guys have a wonderful day and stay safe!”

“Oh, I didn’t…” John started.

“Thank you so much, you have a wonderful day too!” Lucy cut John off and began to drag him away from the truck.

The two of them went to sit at a table with Tim, Aaron and Nyla for the rest of their lunch. They were all hoping it wouldn’t be cut short by a call coming in.

“Alright Nolan!” Aaron exclaimed as John sat down.

“What? What did I do?”

“The bag. The barista gave you her number!”

John turned the bag around and sure enough your name and phone number had been neatly printed along with a little heart. John looked at Tim, then Nyla and finally to Lucy. He hadn’t been expecting you to give him your number, especially not after he had made a complete fool of himself in front of you just moments before.

Just as Lucy was about to encourage him to text you, a call came ringing in over the radios. Everyone was quick to get up and head to their respective shops. John heard Tim and Lucy radio that they were responding, and that Nyla and Aaron were acting as backup. He figured they had it covered, and he would continue to patrol, but not before adding you into his contacts.

Three days.

It was three days before John had gathered the courage to text you. He hadn’t seen you either, since he’d worked through lunch one of the days, had a pretty big drug bust on the second day, and was assigned to the front desk on the third day. Today though, he had the day off and now was his time to text you and see if you would want to go on a date with him.

John: Hey, this is John. From the other day.

You: Hi! I was beginning to think that maybe I was too forward.

John: Oh, no, not at all! I’m sorry, things have just been really busy with work. I finally have a day off.

You: Okay, good! I’m sorry work has been keeping you busy. Hopefully you’ve been able to stay safe.

John: I have. Nothing too out of the ordinary this week. How have you been?

You: I’ve been good! I have been testing some new recipes and trying to figure out what to swap in for the fall season.

You: Speaking of which…would you like to be a taste tester for me? I could really use a customer’s perspective!

John: I would love to! By the way, that croissant was incredible. I was actually texting you to ask you to dinner.

You: Yeah, dinner and then we can go back to mine to try these desserts?

You: Wow that was also very forward…I’m not usually like this by the way!

John: No worries. I won’t read into it I promise. So tonight, can I pick you up at 7?

You: 7 is perfect, see you then John!

After confirming your plans with John, you kicked it into high gear. It was 10:07 a.m. and you had a lot to do before you’d be ready to go. You really needed to get your nails done, you needed to finish the 6 different pastries you’d been working on, and you’d really need to shower before you could get ready.

After doing some quick math in your head, you figured that you would have just enough time to get everything done provided you shower while some things were baking in the oven. With that, you place the pre-cut cookie dough into the freezer (these would be easy enough to pull out and bake later when you and John go back), you placed the muffins and two different loaves of bread in the oven. That just left the cake that you were actively frosting and the pie that was cooling. Once the cake was thoroughly iced, you threw the dishes in the dishwasher and headed towards the shower, not without checking your timer to make sure you’d have ample time.

You were sure to go through all the steps of what you’d consider a full shower, washing and conditioning your hair, washing your body with your best smelling body wash, and shaving essentially every inch of your body. You weren’t anticipating that anything would happen tonight, but you wanted to be prepared nonetheless and you’d make sure at the very least that you smelled good.

After drying off and throwing on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, you made way for the kitchen just in time to pull out the muffins and the bread. You set them out on the cooling rack, turned the oven off and then you headed to your favorite nail salon. They were able to get you in right away seeing as it was 12:00 p.m. on a Thursday.

Your nail appointment ended at about 1:30 p.m., which gave you enough time to head over and check on your staff and the truck. Upon arrival you noticed there were a few police cruisers parked along the curb. You knew John was off today, but you still found yourself scanning the crowd for him.  

“He’s not here.” Your staff, Ezra, had called over to you.

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” You tried to hide your blush, embarrassed about getting caught looking for John. Ezra was the one who had encouraged you to give him your number in the first place, having seen how smitten you were with John when you’d met him the other day. Ezra and you had been friends for years, he could read you better than anyone.

“Mmhmm, sure thing. It was a different group this time around. What are you up to? Aren’t you supposed to be off testing new pastries?” Ezra questioned you.

“I was doing exactly that when John texted me and asked me out! I went and got my nails done and figured I would stop by and see how things were going before I went back home and got ready for my date.”

“OH MY GOD! See I told you that if you gave him your number, he’d ask you out. There were definite vibes the other day, he was so enamored by you that he forgot to look at the menu!” Ezra gushed.

“Okay, fine. You were right. I’m kind of nervous, he’s taking me to dinner, then we’re going back to my place so he can taste the new desserts and give me his opinions on them.”

“Girl, you are going to be fine! He seems nice and you are an amazing person, no reason to be nervous. Plus, what have you got to lose?” Ezra had always been your voice of reason in times of need.

“Okay, yeah. I should probably get going then so I can get ready.”

“Okay babe, have a great night! OH and you should wear the outfit you wore to our opening party, it screams you and its hot!”

“Oh, that was a good outfit, I don’t know where he’s taking me yet, but it should be dressy enough.”

You said your goodbyes to Ezra and made your way back home. It was nearing 3:30 p.m. and you knew you should probably start getting ready. You grabbed a glass of water and then got to styling your hair. You curled your hair and applied some natural looking makeup and went to get dressed. To pair with the faux leather skirt and starry mesh top, you slid on some black tights, comfy socks and your Doc Martens. Looking over at your alarm clock you see 6:45p.m. glowing red and you decide to switch to a smaller purse in the time you have left before your date…your usual everyday tote bag not exactly matching this outfit choice. You’d opted for a small leather handbag, with gold accents, it matched your outfit perfectly and was better suited for the occasion. As soon as you organized everything into the purse a knock sounded at the door. You took a deep breath then walked to answer it.

“Hi!” You greeted John as you opened the door.

“Wow, you look incredible.” John was awestruck, you had such a different style than the women he had previously dated, but he was really loving it. You were so confident in your own skin, and you just had this glow about you.

“Thank you, you look very handsome.”

“Shall we?” John gestured to his truck.

You nodded and the two of you walked around to the passenger side. John opened the door for you then offered his hand to assist you into the truck.

“Such a gentleman.”

John blushed at the compliment, he tried to shake it off as he started the truck and pulled out of your driveway. You made small talk on your way to the restaurant, which ended up being a very nice steakhouse.

John parked and looked over to you, he made note of the way you were inspecting the sign, and immediately panicked.

“I probably should have asked and made sure you weren’t a vegetarian!”

“I’m not! I love a good steak; my dad is a self-proclaimed grill master!” You laughed.

John laughed with you and let out a sigh of relief. He once again opened your door for you and reached to help you out of the truck. He was so different form the men you had dated before, so polite and caring. He listened to what you had to say and even asked you questions to learn more about you. It was so refreshing to be around someone like him. Truth is, you had dated some pretty terrible people in the past and that was the main reason you were single now. You’d decided to take a break from dating and focus on yourself and your career, which is how you’d gotten to the point of owning a very successful food truck. You had explained to John that your end goal is to have a brick-and-mortar location of Hallowed Grounds that was a café/bookstore. You wanted to create a cozy space for people to hangout while they enjoyed good food.

John just sat and smiled, he loved how you lit up when you spoke about it. Seeing you so passionate about something was honestly inspiring. He hadn’t expected the feelings for you to be so immediate, so strong, just crashing to the surface as the night went on. John could feel himself growing concerned about whether or not you were feeling as strongly for him as he was for you. The two of you had just clicked and it was so effortless.

What John didn’t know is you were currently battling the same demons. Was it really possible to be this comfortable with someone after such a short time?

Dinner had passed far too quickly for either of your likings, you were honestly just glad that you had already planned to continue this evening. You weren’t ready to say goodnight to John just yet. As John drove you back to your place, he took a risk by reaching for your hand to hold, you were quick to slide your hand into his and you couldn’t help but blush. John couldn’t believe how soft your hand was and it made him think about how rough his must be from his years as a contractor, he shook the thought away as you gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

You made it back to your place relatively quickly and John once again made sure to assist you on the passenger side, only this time instead of offering you his hand, he was a little bolder. He’d placed his hands on your waist and slowly helped you out of the truck. You stood there, chest to chest, your breath hitching from the proximity. Your gazes danced over one another’s face, shifting from eyes to lips back to eyes, silently asking for permission. When you slightly tilted your head, John understood and reached his right hand up to cup your jaw as he brought you in for a kiss. The kiss lasted for what felt like forever but ended far too soon. You wanted to exist in this moment infinitely.

You and John held hands once again as you staggered to the door. You made quick work of the lock and invited him in, guiding him to the kitchen.

“You ready to try some desserts?” You asked.

“Absolutely!” John replied.

You blushed, realizing the double entendre and moved to get all the desserts plated up. You explained to John that you’d need to throw the cookies in the oven, but they only took about 10 minutes to cook. He nodded and asked if you needed any help with anything, which you declined and encouraged him to relax.

John watched as you worked in the kitchen, this had been your element and it was like a well-choreographed dance, the way you moved. He couldn’t help but smile to himself, picturing the two of you like this, years down the road. He knew that you had only just met, but after tonight he couldn’t deny the connection. He realized he had been wrong when he said he would never fall in love again. That was true, until he met you.

[intoloopin-archive]

LOOP GOES DISCO #1 - "THE LAST PIT OF HELL IS AN ASSHOLE'S HOTEL BATHROOM."

A SERIES REWRITE OF DISCARDED SCENES USING DISCO ELYSIUM GAME MECHANICS/LINGO.

TWS: Drug use. Cursing. Self deprecating language. Fighting. Forced vomiting. Blood. Feelings being expressed weirdly at inappropriate times (???).

CONTEXT: This is rewrite of a missing scene from END AT ME: it's a glimpse at the Hell party that caused Minwoo to call Taesong on July 14th going 15th + what proceeded the final motel scene by 4 to 6 hours.

starring: Bang Minwoo. Xu 'J.J' Jiahang.

word account: 3.8K / 3,848 words.

writer's note: OKAY, SO! To anyone who's unfamiliar on how DE functions, fear not: this works as it's own thing. But to hopefully get you into the right mood, I'll link a video to the game's intro as well as the skill sheet out of detail so you can grasp what's being evoked here. Most skills have been adapted to fit this new setting and Minwoo's own psychology anyway, so understanding how they function in game or not (hopefully!) won't take away from any fun of this psyche dive. With that being said! Good read! This is the most fun I had all week!

THE ASSHOLE’S HOTEL BATHROOM - Filled with too many soap cabinets and a candelabra for a lamp – things of value but no *practical use* – the Asshole’s Hotel Bathroom looks exactly like you expect it to. To put it simply it's a fancy, cold and soulless shit deposit.

REACTION SPEED (Easy: Success) - Like your goddamn man.

EMPATHY (Challenging: Success) - Like *them*, your man’s ‘friends’, who share no traits with him. Not an hinch of loyalty to anything or anyone.

YOU - You inspect Jiahang, the said man – just a man, his own man – that you have an arm's hold of, dragging along behind you. He doesn’t want to come into the Asshole’s Hotel Bathroom, of course not. He doesn’t want to leave The Party and its Party People either, but he must be surgically extracted from them. He must be attended to, immediately.

ESPRIT DE CORPS (Medium: Fail) - You still have no idea why he jumped on to take what the asshole man offered you, why he tried to bargain your way out of the room at the expense of his already too dazed system, with a dry gulp of a too big pill ill meant for you, putting on a show so you could leave.

INTERFACING (Easy: Success) - As if you would ever choose to escape out of any Hell without him – as if you could make out of any labyrinth without your North Star.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY (Easy: Success) - God, he’s beautiful even while bone deep in physical discomfort. That’s art in real fucking staggering movements, all live, full color. He has mastered the sweet, sweet pain it takes to *be* music. He has beat you at your own game, Minwoo love. Beat you right up. *Beat you good*.

LOGIC (Easy: Success) - Whatever is that he swallowed, he needs it out of his system. Now.

YOU - You lock the door behind you, let his pulse go. You both stand in discrepant different examples of equilibrium at the center of the room.

VISUAL CALCULUS (Easy: Success) - The toilet has its lid already set open, like a paid extra.

“What were you thinking?!”

“You need to throw up. *Now*.”

No talking. No time to waste. Reach forward. Be of help.

YOU - You take an unfocused step forward, leaving two feet between Jiahang and you. The proximity accomplishes nothing: your fingers trail millimeters over his chest, failing to check anything, just shaking.

JIAHANG - "Minwoo hyung, c’mon… Calm down, okay, calm down… I can�� take it, I’m alright…," Jiahang’s marijuana voice is something deeper in tone and lighter in sound, close to a whisper. He takes pauses to hold in anxious, misplaced laughs. “It’s not my… First rodeo, so… Calm down…”

LOGIC (Easy: Success) - He’s not new to drugs, that’s what he meant. Both in general, and with today’s doctor’s prescription: weed, cocaine, maybe, and the other thing, the white pill.

ENCYCLOPEDIA (Easy: Success) - You knew this already. You pretended not to, for someone’s sake – you don’t remember who, now – but it’s become obvious to you early on. How could it not when it’s *you*, a Guryo son who knows what to seek for when telling… *high risk riders* apart from any crowd.

LOGIC (Easy: Success) - And yet you did nothing to put a stop to it. You let it come to this. This is as much as your fault as it is the asshole man’s. You’re a fucking asshole man, Asshole Man.

YOU - Your head bends downwards, away from him, away from direct view.

INLAND EMPIRE (Medium: Success) - Because it pains you; the sight of him pains you. It always has. Every inch of his body is a light that cuts right through your retinas, close to being fatal.

DRAMA (Easy: Success) - By God, he’s made you just as blind as the piano and guitar have. *He really is music*.

“Why are you, out of everyone, making stupid fucking decisions?!”

Give me something else. I won’t say that.

YOU - Give me something else. I won’t say that.

HALF LIGHT (Challenging: Fail) - Oh? And why the fuck not?

It’s not what he needs to fucking hear now, shit Head!

The night’s been already harsh enough. Try to be kind or something, fuck Hell.

Please, *please* don’t make me say it. I don’t wanna say it.

YOU - It’s not what he needs to fucking hear now, shit Head!

HALF LIGHT (Challenging: Fail) - Well, fuck-o, this is all you got. Have you forgotten who you are? You’re a brute and ruthless son of a gun. Shoot-words-to-kill, that’s the Bang Minwoo pattern of speech. You know nothing else.

“Why are you, out of everyone, making stupid fucking decisions?!”

[COMPOSURE CHECK: IMPOSSIBLE (3% CHANCE).] Breath.

[LOGIC CHECK: GODLY (27% CHANCE).] Come up with something else. Something soothing. *Anything*.

LOGIC CHECK: FAILURE. - As you search your oceanic brain for a cohesive, less deadly set of words, you find nothing but a dark void and the defeating sound of static. You’re tongue tied. You’re jaw set. You’re furious. You’re terrified. You’re only half inside your own body.

PAIN THRESHOLD (Impossible: Fail) - The smell of urine and powder mixed together, coming straight off the toilet to your nose. The sensation of being too small, too impotent inside a big room that you’ve never seen so big. The body of a loved one shivering close, mad with fever.

INLAND EMPIRE (Challenging: Fail) - It’s all too familiar, isn’t it now, crack baby?

[-1 MORALE.]

THE AWARENESS OF THE LOOP - TIME IS A FLAT FUCKING CIRCLE, AND YOU DREW ITS LINE THEN, AND YOU DREW ITS LINE NOW!

“Why are you, out of everyone, making stupid fucking decisions?!”

[COMPOSURE CHECK: IMPOSSIBLE (1% CHANCE).] Breath.

COMPOSURE CHECK: EPIC FAIL. - Thinking of breathing only makes your breathing worse. Stop. Thinking. Of. It. STOP. IMMEDIATELY.

[-1 PHYSICAL.]

“Why are you, out of everyone, making stupid fucking decisions?!”

YOU - “Why are you, out of everyone, making stupid fucking decisions?!”

JIAHANG - Slowly, as if he’s hearing you with a 15 second delay, Jiahang looks up at you with his big stars for eyes, embedded in a sea of red. “What..?”

“You–! Jesus Christ, you fucking heard me, Jiahang!”

YOU - “You–! Jesus Christ, you fucking heard me, Jiahang!”

“I can’t deal with you having a crash, I can’t witness that sort of *shit*! You know why I fucking can’t!”

YOU - “I can’t deal with you having a goddamn crash, I can’t witness that sort of *shit*! You know why I fucking can’t!”

JIAHANG - The delay’s gone, it seems: in front of you, Jiahang flinches, withers, pressing his tiny lips close together.

AUTHORITY (Challenging: Success) - BE CALM. He’s scared, but not of you – only of himself, what he’s done, and what you might think of him now.

EMPATHY (Medium: Success) - And he’s ashamed of what he took you back to, now that he realizes – the razor sharp flashes of your once uncle seem to flow between you telepathically.

THE BLURRY PHOTO INSIDE YOUR WALLET - *GOODSPEED, BANG WOOHYUN – BELOVED BROTHER, ADORED SON, TRUE FATHER. AND MAY GOD LAY YOU TO REST KINDLY.*

CONCEPTUALIZATION (Medium: Success) - He’s always scared of what people might think of him. It’s his Achilles tendon. When it comes to you, the fear of letting down goes hand in hand with an old, too familiar grief.

UNTRACEABLE RUSH OF DOPAMINE - Tell him. Tell him what we think of him, now and always. It’s time.

“I just don’t get– You or, or! You’re supposed to be music, for shit’s sake! Whatever the fuck that means!”

Don’t make me do this to me now.

I don’t fucking know what I think, alright?! Not about him, not about anything anymore! *I don’t know!* And I don’t want to know! I don’t give a shit! I never fucking have!

YOU - I don’t fucking know what I think, alright?! Not about him, not about anything anymore! *I don’t know!* And I don’t want to know! I don’t give a shit! I never fucking have!

DRAMA (Easy: Success) - Alright, sire, alright. Don’t open the Pandora’s Box that is your stone heart, if you’re too much of a pussy to see what’s been growing inside. Suit your weak self, take the coward’s road. Just be careful not to fall too hard while embarking on this deep, deep sink of yours into that old, old Egyptian river.

ENCYCLOPEDIA (Legendary: Success) - That old Egyptian river is called the Nile river. Say it's determiner and name three times quickly out loud. The joke writes itself.

INLAND EMPIRE (Easy: Success) - Not a easier joke to decipher than *you*, of course, Bang Man.

JIAHANG - It takes him a while, but Jiahang eventually recovers; straightens his spine up, grows back to big. “If you can’t see it, then… leave, then. You can… do that. You brought me my bag, I– I took the *thing* for you, you’re free– free to go. So go on. Turn around, just turn– turn around, if that’s what… what you want so bad!”

[VOLITION RED CHECK: IMPOSSIBLE (0% CHANCE). YOU CAN’T RETRY IT.] Leave.

I can’t leave him.

“I can’t leave you!”

YOU - I can’t leave him.

PERCEPTION (Heroic: Fail) - Ah, yes. That you have no strength to do. It's as simple as that.

“I can’t leave you – not like this!”

“I can’t leave you – not with them!”

“I just *can’t leave you*!”

YOU - “I can’t leave you, Jiahang – not like this!”

JIAHANG - You see a frown show up on his forehead as he mouths ‘like this’, like it’s an insult, but doesn’t say it. What he does say is a frustrated, confused plea of, “Then what, Minwoo? Then *what*?!”

HAND/EYE COORDINATION (Easy: Success) - Oh, sire. You know exactly what you must do.

[SUGGESTION CHECK: FORMIDABLE (38% CHANCE).] Convince Jiahang to throw up. Keep talking. He’s giving in.

[REACTION SPEED CHECK: CHALLENGING (65% CHANCE).] Make him throw up. You’ve lost too much damn time already with all this fucking talking.

[PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT RED CHECK: IMPOSSIBLE (1% CHANCE). YOU CAN’T RETRY IT.] Shove him into the bathtub and turn on the ice cold shower. Let the thermal shock overwhelm him, then make him throw up there. It’s risky, but it feels like the way.

REACTION SPEED CHECK: FAIL. You raise your arms and grab him suddenly by the elbows, catching him visibly by surprise – and it all goes quickly downhill from there.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT (Challenging: Epic Fail) - Your limbs struggle to make him bend any way, let alone to the direction of the toilet or the floor. Under your feet, the humid ground keeps you from grounding yourself enough to make any of this work. Nothing’s in your favor. You realize your mistake too late.

RHETORIC (Easy: Success) - You should have thought this through. Jiahang is, after all, much taller than you – and much too cherished for your hands to dare squeeze or scratch.

YOU - Your fingers let go without you telling them to. Bad equilibrium disrupted, Jiahang slips on the wet tiles and falls sideways, head bumping with the toilet’s unforgiving ceramic, nose first, sound second: a horrible cry out of pain you heard just once.

[CRITICAL MORALE DAMAGE.]

[CRITICAL PHYSICAL DAMAGE.]

YOU - DEAR GOD. MY DEAR GOD.

EMPATHY (Medium: Success): DON’T SHUT DOWN – YOU CAN’T. IT MAKES YOU MORE VICIOUS. YOU DIDN’T MEAN TO: HE MUST KNOW YOU DIDN’T MEAN TO. RUSH TO PROVE IT– HELP!

JUMP TO HELP!

YOU - YOU JUMP TO HELP! You’re on your knees quicker than you’ve ever been, palming his back, his shoulder.

JIAHANG - He glimpses at you sideways, then hides his face away, turning it to the opposite side. A lonely stream of blood drips from his left nostril, and he rushes to cover it with his trembling hand. You notice; you hear a sob.

RETHORIC (Heroic: Fail) - You’re a wordsmitch, fuck face, or are you not?! SAY SOMETHING. FIX THIS.

“Fuck, you– You didn’t give me *any other choice*, like!!!”

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry so so sorry I’m sorry sorry!!!!!!”

Fuck it. Focus on the mission. Put your fingers down his throat. Count damages later.

YOU - Make the worst worth it, you think, as you scoopes his face in.

LOGIC (Medium: Fail) - Will it even accomplish anything? The white pill’s been in his system for over 20 minutes, not to mention all the rest, a pool party of shit in his bloodstream. Anyhow: better safe than sorry, you assume – you pray.

YOU - You fight to get your fingers into his mouth, meet a wall of teeth, a resistence of tongue; it opens after you let out a small curse, like a castle’s gate.

SUGGESTION (Easy: Success) - So *this* is how it feels.

PERCEPTION (Medium: Success) - Under you, he’s stopped moving. Jiahang has no real strength or deep desire to push you out or hurt you. He might even understand the invasion, under the haze; be grateful for it, even.

YOU - You feel it when it comes, a stream of bile. You remove your hand and wipes it on your trousers, sees Jiahang bending over to sit and spill sick yellow vomit for seconds, a minute.

ENCYCLOPEDIA (Easy: Success) - Even though you’ve hurt him not a second ago – it wasn’t even the first time, either – he hasn’t bitten a single finger of yours off when he had the chance. Not a follower of the Eye For an Eye school of thinking, this pupil of yours, despite your suffocating influence. That’s good. You’re nothing but a bad preacher of a bad religion.

JIAHANG - When he’s done spitting and coughing, Jiahang begins to curl into himself, turning into a quiet small ball on the floor, too close to the release pool.

“I’m sorry. It was the only way– I’m sorry.”

“Jiahang-ah, please, let me take a look at you – Let me look at you, *please*.”

[AUTHORITY CHECK: EASY. 92% CHANCE.] “Show me your nose, now.”

AUTHORITY CHECK: SUCCESS.

YOU - “Show me your nose, now.”

PERCEPTION (Easy: Success) - He does, without a fight, lying on the floor with his head facing the ceiling. It’s bad, the bruise – the damage. You help guide him to sit up straight as he can.

YOU - You extend your hand to the side, up– The toilet paper dances off the holder as you push it, and it rolls away. You get enough of it to wrap it over your open palm three times, to make an amateur glove. You wipe the trace of blood off his mouth as gently as you can.

JIAHANG - “I’m such a… mess, just so–!” He cries, suddenly; a dam of tears, hot and uncontainable. “Awful, *awful* thing, disgusting fucking– fucking *thing*!”

“I know. I know exactly what you are.”

“That’s not all there is to you, baby, it’s not all there is to you at all, listen to me, honey, *listen*, **please listen**.”

“You could be worse.”

YOU - “You could be worse.”

JIAHANG - This gets his attention. “How even– Worse how?” Jiahang asks, mid hiccup, mid wail. “Give me one– One fucking example, if you… can. Can you? You *can’t*, can you?!”

SHIVERS (Medium: Success) - Around you and around him, The Party keeps on going, like a nonstop train. Your ears attune themselves to the purr of it – it's a habit. You’re too often outside rooms buzzing with life, only listening in through paper thin walls, missing the experience of it.

EMPATHY (Heroic: Success) - No one has come to check on him, you both have realized – Jiahang a minute faster than you. None of his Party People friends give a flying fuck. The reality is falling down on him like a skyscraper, crushing, breathtaking, killer.

AUTHORITY (Legendary: Success) - LET THE OUTSIDE WORLD GO QUIET. THERE IS SOMETHING HE WANTS TO HEAR YOU SAY.

[REACTION SPEED RED CHECK: IMPOSSIBLE (11% CHANCE.) YOU CAN’T RETRY IT.] Start listing the real world things that are worse than him. (There’s a ton, and you know them intimately – and you know him intimately. Give Jiahang something else to weep for.)

[DRAMA RED CHECK, IMPOSSIBLE (9% CHANCE.) YOU CAN’T RETRY IT.] Start listing the unreal, out of this world things worse than him – the ones you’ve seen in your open eyed dreams. (Not as many options, but a tad lighter. Make the sadness disappear, bring anything close to a laugh back. Be the mad man for a great cause.)

[INLAND EMPIRE RED CHECK: LEGENDARY (26% CHANCE). YOU CAN’T RETRY IT.] “You could be like me. I’m worse than you’ll ever be.” (The truth. It can only hurt you.)

Say nothing.

INLAND EMPIRE CHECK: SUCCESS.

YOU - “You could be like me. I’m worse than you’ll ever be.”

LOGIC (Challenging: Success) - There is nothing worse than you, False Prophet, Fake Noah. Obsessed with connecting melodies, speaking truthfully only through rhyme schemes on pieces of paper that meet no one, only the bottom of trash cans or the back of your hard pillow. You’re not functional. You’re no leading man. You’re no good.

INLAND EMPIRE (Medium: Success) - But it feels good, doesn’t it? To finally admit how rotten you are after a whole life of pretending you’re a giving three, a good soil.

EMPATHY (Challenging: Success) - To say to someone who knows it, understands it, and stays.

[+1 MORALE]

Wait, I gained a fucking morale point from THAT?!

YOU - What the actual fuck?!

RHETORIC (Medium: Success) - You’re neck deep into shit, pal. Just count your win. It’s only a consolidation medal, nothing more, nothingbless – kiddo needs his fake prizes to fill his kiddo fuel.

JIAHANG - “But… I feel like you already,” he tells you. “All the time, hyung… All the time, I feel like you– Angry, and upset, and– and so lonely.”

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT (Easy: Success) - Wait, what’s that taunting your face, blocking your neck…? Oh, fucking Hell…! You’re crying! You’re nodding at him and crying!

AUTHORITY (Impossible: Fail) - HOW THE FUCK ARE YOU CRYING?! You don’t do that anymore, you’ve forgotten how. Revoke it. Revoke it along with all this sweat taking over your body.

“Don’t you dare say that.”

“I’m sorry, Jiahang. This is not– Not what I wanted to happen.”

“Just– Give me a minute, God, give me a minute!”

YOU - “I’m sorry, Jiahang. This is not– Not what I wanted to happen.”

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT (Easy: Success) - The tears prickle your eyes, actually turn you momentarily blind. You blink, hard, adjusting to their salt. It reminds you of how hard to stomach you are, inside out.

PAIN THRESHOLD (Medium: Success) - And it reminds you of how much saltier you’ve used to be. The tears are already falling off your sad sockets, sire – let them.

[+1 PHYSICAL.]

JIAHANG - “It’s not so bad, right, I think, to have… Turned into *this*, because– You’re no longer… lonely, and… Neither am I, right…? We can both be happy with that, be happy…” He doesn’t finish speaking; just closes his eyes, closes his mouth.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY (Medium: Fail) - We like the visual he’s evoking, Minwoo love. Picture the two of you, holding hands, walking right into the dooming sun– Oh, oh! Romeo and Romeo, tongue deep into each other’s poison bitter throats!!!

EMPATHY (Medium: Success) - Your man’s not right. He’s fading. This isn’t the Jiahang you want; most importantly, this isn’t the Jiahang that *Jiahang wants*. This is no good, Minwoo.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY (Medium: Fail) - It’s as close as we'll ever get to having any Jiahang *at all*. Enjoy it! We should kiss him now. Seal this deal right up. Two shots of Marriage In Misery and a whole bottle of Honeymoon On The Floor (Animal Style) coming *right the fuck up*, sign it to the wingless lovebirds right there, near the piss jar!!!

EMPATHY (Medium: Success) - Let go of his hand. Check his eyes. Help him up.

INLAND EMPIRE (Legendary: Fail) - Or perhaps this is the time for you to leave. You shouldn’t have ever touched him, to begin with. You shouldn’t have spoken a single word beyond ‘Goodbye’ to this man when he was still a graduating boy. You shouldn’t have made him think that he needed to cling to ruination to shine. You shouldn't have come to know any of them.

Kiss Jiahang. (ANIMAL FUCKING STYLE!!!)

Check Jiahang up (medically.), then help him up. You both need to leave the Asshole's Hotel Bathroom and The Asshole’s Hotel all together.

Walk away – Just walk away. His shortness of breath seems contagious. It’s sticking to your lungs.

YOU - It takes no effort to untangle your hands from his, to place them both on his cheeks, tend to the temperature.

ENCYCLOPEDIA (Challenging: Success) - His skin is at 110 degrees, to be precise. The lucky-unlucky number, if you’ll believe it.

LOGIC (Medium: Success) - It’s a mind and body turmoil. I’m afraid you can do nothing about it.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN, *DO NOTHING*?! FUCK OFF.

I can do something, I– I feel it.

I refuse to let him fall. I reject it.

YOU - I refuse to let him fall. I reject it.

INLAND EMPIRE (Medium: Success) - Cute, my lord, but still not enough. You might as well swear to become a whole different man, in your desperation, if you want to make this medicine of yours come true – transform into a superhuman, super empathic man suit. Like the Taesong Taesong thinks he is.

Good, I’ll swear on it, I’ll be it – I've been waiting for an excuse to tend to the internal damage and start a renovation. This is will be my new wallpaper.

No, don’t swear on it, fool – There’s no need to be extreme. *There’s no guarantee it will work*.

YOU - No, don’t swear on it, fool – There’s no need to be extreme. *There’s no guarantee it will work.*

ENCYCLOPEDIA (Challenging: Success) - Exactly. Hold your horses, Bang Man. Take this promise in. You never tried to be anything besides what you are now. You’re a 26-year-old hound – in dog years that’s 116 to 128 years of living. There’s no space inside your head for new tricks, new instincts.

DRAMA (Easy: Success) - You’re chained to a wall, my liege. You have to tear it the fuck down, and clean the concrete aftermath, and rise from the ashes of it – full Fenix style. Fail at that and you’ll be here again, if not in this asshole’s hotel bathroom, then another asshole’s hotel bathroom; if not with him, then with someone else, just as meaningful. You got the need for change, now? The need to compromise the fuck out of you?!

AUTHORITY (Heroic: Success): Say you got it now.

Fine. I guess I got it now.

I got it! I fucking got it, goddammit!

I understand.

YOU - I understand.

INLAND EMPIRE (Challenging: Success) - My, oh my… It seems you really do.

THE AWARENESS OF THE LOOP - *OH?* OH! THIS IS A REAL STEP, THIS IS SOMETHING – OH, THIS IS *REALLY SOMETHING NOW*, LITTLE MOON, WHAT A MAGNIFICENT EFFORT! THIS IS PROGRESS YOU’RE HOLDING THE HAND OF, AND IT’S PLEASED TO MEET YOU AT LAST, SO PLEASED TO MEET YOU! THE THING ABOUT IT– THE THING WITH PROGRESS, SHARP-TOOTHED ONE, IS THAT THERE IS NEVER ANY INGLORIOUS END – THERE’S NO END TO IT AT ALL!

[HIDDEN TASK, ‘TAKE THE 1ST STEP OF A 100 INTO METAMORPHOSIS’, COMPLETE.]

[+30 EXPERIENCE.]

[YOU CAN LEVEL UP A SKILL NOW.]

[END?]

[END.]

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

🎵 Whirling in Rags, 8 AM

6. "Like a man down on his luck? I'm trying real hard here, man."

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - "Oh..." He seems taken aback for a moment. "Well, go solve your case then. That would count as *trying hard*."

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] - He didn't answer *your* question.

4. "*Now* will you answer some questions for me?"

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - "No," he says calmly, then just keeps staring at you.

"Why not?"

"Don't you *have* to?"

"Fine."

KIM KITSURAGI - "No, he doesn't."

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - "If I wasn't clinically depressed, I'd burst out laughing." He doesn't look amused. "But I'm gonna go with *no* right now."

"If you don't want to answer questions then maybe you want to hear me *say things*?"

"Let's talk about something else then."

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - "Actually, I *don't* want to hear you say things."

HORSE-FACED WOMEN - "C'mon, Jean..."

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - "Okay. Say things." He adopts a lighter tone. "I want to hear you say things."

AUTHORITY [Trivial: Success] - Hear that? He wants you to say things. Say one!

REACTION SPEED [Easy: Success] - Suddenly, out of nowhere, case-related things start popping up in your head!

"Okay I'm doing this investigation -- a man is hanged."

"Okay, I'm doing this investigation and it turns out he was shot *and* hanged..."

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - "You think he was hanged as a coverup? To hide the shooting?"

"Basically -- yes."

"Hey, why am I telling you this?"

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - "Okay. Well..." He corrects his blonde wig. Khm... his hair. He corrects his hair.

"Hey, why am I telling you this?"

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - "I don't know... why are you?" He gives you an odd look.

INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] - Who knows why we do the things we do. Somehow bouncing those ideas off the man with sunglasses felt calming. Like you've done it before.

+1 Morale

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - "Oh my god, there's more..." He looks at you in disbelief. "You want something more... what is it?"

Actually, there isn't.

5. "Okay then. See you around!" [Leave.]

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - "Watch out for yourself, loser!"

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Medium: Success] - That voice... so very familiar... Did you hear it when calling to your station and reporting your badge missing?

"Wait, your voice... I recognize it."

It's probably nothing. [Leave.]

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - "Oh really?! I wonder where?!"

"I lost my badge recently. When I called in to report it missing, you were there."

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - *"That's* where you remember me from?"

+5 XP

"Yes. I haven't seen you before."

"Maybe..."

"Khm… I have a bit of…" (Point to your head.) "Memory trouble."

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - "You don't say?" He turns away from you. "Good bye then. The voice thing was a *coincidence*. Run along, asshole."

ESPRIT DE CORPS - Okay, the man with the sunglasses and his *hypothetical Station 41*. Weird, right?

I know! Super weird.

I guess it was kind of weird, yes.

No, this whole interaction was perfectly normal.

Frankly I'm way past caring or wondering. [Discard thought.]

ESPRIT DE CORPS - There's something we're missing here... something you can't put our finger on. You know what -- just ask him. I know it sounds crazy (and you'll probably get laughed at). But still...

I was thinking the same thing. I should just ask him if we're from the same station.

It's impossible. I don't want to waste my time.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - Yes. Just cross it off the list. It's probably not true though.

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - "Again?! I can't believe this shit..." He shakes his head, looking like he really is having trouble believing this *shit*.

"Look, I just have to ask: are we from the same police station?"

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - "I'm going to say... *no*. Just to see what you'll say to that. What do you say?"

"Okay."

"Yeah. Probably not. I don't remember you from anywhere."

MAN WITH SUNGLASSES - "God fucking shit..." He pinches the root of his nose.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] - None of this is great news for him.

ESPRIT DE CORPS - Okay. I was clearly wrong. He is a firefighter, male nurse, animal control agent -- something of that kind. Not a cop. Go on with your cop work. Don't let me stop you again.

+5 XP

6. "Okay then. See you around!" [Leave.]

HORSE-FACED WOMAN - The woman in an RCM patrol officer's uniform winces as she notices you.

"I would really prefer not to talk to you right now…"

AUTHORITY [Trivial: Success] - A patrol officer is the lowest rank in the RCM, below lieutenant and sergeant.

"Hold on, you're a patrol officer of the RCM?"

"I'm on a murder investigation. Are you the cavalry?"

"Is everything alright? Why don't you want to talk to me?" (Proceed.)

"Fine, I'm leaving." [Leave.]

HORSE-FACED WOMAN - "Yes." She nods. "I am."

2. "I'm a cop too."

HORSE-FACED WOMAN - "I know."

KIM KITSURAGI - "He's the real deal."

3. "I'm on a murder investigation. Are you the cavalry?"

HORSE-FACED WOMAN - "I'm definitely not the cavalry."

4. "Is everything alright? Why don't you want to talk to me?" (Proceed.)

HORSE-FACED WOMAN - "I don't know..." She's still avoiding your gaze. "I mean, why would I want to talk to you?"

[johannestevans]

The Prince's Crown: Chapter One

Fantasy/Romance. A young man discovers strange secrets whilst attempting to escape his father’s control.

Read on Patreon / / Read on Medium / / Read on Ao3

In Victorian England, a young and sickly Norwegian immigrant, Ansgar “Forseti” Borson, quarrels with his father over what his future is to be.

The man is stern, cold, and distant, and never seems satisfied with anything Forseti pursues, seems disappointed with every facet of him and yet will never explain why. In secret, Forseti escapes these punishing expectations by dedicating himself to something very unorthodox indeed: magic.

— -

“Ansgar! Stop!”

Forseti’s heels clicked as he hurriedly descended the stairs, his back straight, his chin high, the very image of masculine grace despite the speed with which he moved. He swept his coat from its hook in the entrance hall, sliding it onto his shoulders as a cowl before he placed his hat upon his head. He pulled on his gloves as he stepped out of doors, and it was only when Forseti crossed over the threshold that he heard Tor thunder down the stairs behind him.

With such speed could his brother move, and with such heft behind his feet! Forseti’s brother might as well be an elephant.

“Ansgar,” Tor said again, coming to fall into step beside him still in his shirt sleeves, not even wearing his coat, and Forseti wondered briefly what the neighbours must think, to see his brother in such a state of undress, yelling at him in the street.

“Good afternoon, brother,” Forseti bade him farewell, making to turn away, but Tor’s hand gripped tightly at Forseti’s wrist, so tightly that the skin smarted, and Forseti hissed out a sound of pain.

Torkild’s rage had affected colour to rise in his cheeks, and his long hair had come out of its careful ties, meaning that it was hanging around his face in weathered strands.

“You would to Norway?” Tor asked, his lips parted, his eyes searching – and oh, how the weight of his gaze settled on Forseti’s face, making him draw back. What was it that made him so sensitive to this man’s emotions above all, prompted such weakness in him?

“Or America,” Forseti muttered, not able to hold his brother’s gaze. “I know not yet.”

“Forseti,” Torkild said achingly, his tone so wounded as to pluck at Forseti’s heart strings even though he couldn’t bear to look at him. The use of this private nickname did not do nearly as much as the weight of Torkild’s own voice. “You would leave us? Leave Mother and I? And Father?”

This latter was a painful afterthought, Tor’s voice quavering just slightly as he made the addition.

“You would have me as I am now?” Forseti replied, his tone arch. He twisted his wrist out of the other man’s grasp, now staring him in the eyes and resisting the urge to curl his lip. “What would you have me do, Torkild? Remain within the house as my forever-gaol, perform no labour of my own? I have not the soul to live a life of leisure, never earning my keep.”

“Then just take work, Ansgar,” Torkild pleaded, and Forseti stared at him.

“What work, pray?” he demanded, not quite forgetting himself as to raise his voice, although the two of them stepped aside in the street. “What work is left to me now? What would might you suggest, Torkild, that our father might permit? I am not to be a journalist, nor a poet; I am to be neither an artist nor a musician; teaching is beneath me, tutoring undignified; engineering too low for me, and management too high!” His voice was not rising in volume, but it did rise in tone, becoming slightly shrill, and he made himself check his tongue, bidding it be silent in his mouth.

Torkild was looking at him beseechingly, his face expressing purest grief and powerlessness.

“Tor, I merely seek some form of peace,” Forseti murmured. “Life without our father’s single eye keeping watch over me, examining me. I feel ever as an insect beneath a microscope, pinned prone under a sheet of glass! What am I to do under such exacting scrutiny? Every breath I take is tight in my chest, lest he find some fault with the set of my lungs, the dilation of my nostrils, the shape of my mouth – every step I take, I must be graceful, yet manly, light-footed and yet strong! You know full well he doesn’t track you as he does me, doesn’t police you as he does me. You don’t know what it’s like.”

“He only wishes for you to be content, Forseti,” Tor said, but his voice was hoarse, and now it was him who couldn’t meet Forseti’s gaze, his hand creeping under his loose locks of hair to rub the back of his neck.

“And do you see me content, brother?” Forseti asked.

“No,” Tor admitted. “But what he wants—”

“What he wants is irrelevant,” Forseti said helplessly, his hands folding in front of his belly, his elbows under his coat. “Tor, he won’t listen to me, he won’t— Whatever it is he extends to you, that grace, he will never extend it to me – all I do is disappoint him, and as long as I live under his roof, that disappointment will keep me in its shadow. I cannot stay here, Tor, I can’t.”

“But to Norway?” Tor asked. “To America? To be far from Father, yes, but… from me? From Mother? You know it will pain her – and if you do not know it now, let me tell you, for you to be so far from me will rend my heart in two.”

“Good afternoon, Tor,” Forseti said, only just able to keep the crack out of his voice, and he turned elegantly once more upon his heel, walking more leisurely now away from his brother. The autumn air was cool against his skin, and he took fast on the path, making his way quickly from the edge of town and onto the country lanes, making his way toward the wood.

“Mr Borson, sir, good afternoon,” said a kindly voice, and Forseti turned, offering a polite smile and a tip of his hat to Vest a Jameson, the cook for the Wright family some doors away.

“Good afternoon, Vesta,” Forseti said, giving her a nod of his head. “Picking apples for Murmel?”

“Young Mr Wright does love his apples, sir,” Vesta said, and she reached into her basket and held one out to him, its skin shining red in the light.

“Oh, Vesta, I couldn’t possibly—”

“Go on, sir. An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” she said, and Forseti couldn’t help the warmth in his own smile, soothing his anxiety away. He had been a sickly child, often confined to bedrest, and when he and Tor had begun to spend more time with the Wrights – Murmel and Hilde both – Vesta had often pushed a diet of more fruits upon Forseti.

“My thanks,” he murmured, taking the kindness as offered, and he touched the brim of his hat once more as the two of them passed each other by. Forseti held the apple over his heat, polishing it against the dark blue of his suit jacket, and he welcomed the boughs of the forest trees over his head. His feet crunched softly on the carpet of yellow and red stretching out beneath his feet, and as he walked, he slipped the apple into his pocket, sighing softly.

The sound itself was taken up by the western wind, and it seemed to echo his own exhalations, rustling through the leaves above his head and making them dance over the path.

It was the second time in as many weeks that Forseti had left the dining table early, his and his father’s tempers catching like two matchsticks against one another, and Forseti felt the heavy ache of guilt in his chest. His mother’s face had been as much pained as it had been shocked at this latest outburst, and Forseti sighed, momentarily removing his hat to run his hand through his hair.

He kept his shorter than Tor did his own, more in the fashion of the Englishmen about them, more in the fashion of the Englishmen they were meant to be themselves.

“What have you been doing today, my son?” his mother had asked, her voice quiet across the table, and Forseti had glanced cautiously up from his stew. She’d lowered her voice for a reason, and seeing Tor and Father so engaged in conversation, he had seen fit to respond in an undertone.

“I sent an inquiry to Mr Dalish at the docks on the Thames,” he’d said quietly. “I thought perhaps, come November, I might take travel to Oslo.”

“Oslo?” had come his Father’s demand from the head of the table – the dining room was small, and sound carried too well in it at times.

Once more he and Forseti had come to verbal blows – what was it to be said for one’s life, when it felt one’s greatest enemy in it was one’s own father?

The wind softly brushed through Forseti’s hair, and he felt its cool touch upon his skin, felt the kiss of the western wind upon his brow.

“What is to be done?” he asked the forest at large, looking out into its depths, into the expanding green. Oh, to be a tree! Standing ever still and unmoving and yet satisfied with one’s lot, changing colours with the seasons, an object acted upon, fed and watered and struggling not with the agony of sloth.

He inhaled, letting the scents of autumn fill his nostrils – mushrooms were growing thick on the forest’s floor, and hazelnuts were beginning to grow in, blackberries growing fat and black in the hedgerows. Taking one up from a thick set of brambles, glad for the leather of his gloves, Forseti slipped it into his mouth and tasted the bloody burst of sweetness on his tongue, then stepped from the path.

Forseti had always been comfortable in these woods, had always taken to them quite instinctively, quite naturally. He had been but a babe in arms when the family had travelled by sea to England from Norway that his father might take up his factory – Tor had been a few years older, four and then five.

He had been very frightened of the forest, he’d told Forseti, before Forseti was old enough to lead his elder brother by the hand down the wooded paths, let alone off them into the grass and undergrowth. He had always had an instinctive understanding of the way the paths meandered and connected with one another, carried a sense of direction even with no sign of the horizon or glimpse of the sun over their heads that Tor lacked.

Even now, Tor never went into the woods alone – he walked at Forseti’s side or with Brunhilde on his arm, stepped under the canopy of the trees only with an escort.

“The dark doesn’t frighten you at home,” Forseti had told him once, the two of them late into their teens and drinking in secret together, Forseti cross-legged upon an old stump and Tor sat across from him on a blanket, reclining back against a willow tree. “Why is it so different here, tinged green from the leaves instead of red from the wallpaper?”

“I don’t know,” Tor had said, and to his credit, Forseti had believed him. He’d stared into the middle distance, his head tilting slightly to one side, his eyes narrowing. “It’s… It’s quiet here, Forseti, that’s all. You hear things here I do not – you see animals and creatures all about us, insects and beetles and spiders, squirrels and birds, cats, deer; you hear their calls and noises, hear branches snapping, hear the wind, even. I have always felt deaf and blind in this place – that you do not lose these senses as I do here, it makes me feel more secure alongside you or Brunhilde or Murmel, even, but still, without you, I simply feel… Vulnerable.”

Torkild Borson was not a man accustomed to feeling vulnerable. Forseti might have resented it, were it not that he so ached to see his brother quaver in this way.

As older children, playing the games they did amongst themselves, the Borsons and the Wrights together, Forseti would often voice the wood as a character of sorts – he would hide behind trees or secrete himself into holes and crevices, call out in booming or whispering voices asides or commentary on their plays.

Many times, once Murmel had begun to embrace his calling as a solicitor, they would play at trials and lawyering, and this was where Forseti’s childhood nickname had come to him and stuck: he would play the judge, mark the line of justice versus injustice, track that which was and would be fair.

He thought about it now, Murmel’s hand brushing against his as they played together, handing over some document or other – and it was always Murmel, too, that could find Forseti during games of hide and seek, where neither Hilde nor Tor could manage it.

Even today, Forseti could hide in these woods as no other man could, could find shadows and holes or climb up into branches that might hide him near entirely. Hilde did not seem to feel blindfolded or deafened as Tor did, but she lacked Forseti’s natural instincts for the wood, his breaths often synchronised to the very breeze over their heads; Murmel was a passionate fisherman and an even more passionate birdwatcher, and he could spy the tiniest movements of Forseti’s body, his limbs, his hair.

How many times had Murmel managed to creep up on him and suddenly lay his hand on Forseti’s shoulders, on the back of his neck, on his waist, in his hair? How many times had Murmel’s breathless laugh sounded in Forseti’s ears, warming his cheeks, the back of his neck?

Forseti quietly exhaled, soothed at more pleasant thoughts than his father’s control and command, and he moved forward, hearing twigs and small branches crunched under his feet, a contrast to the softer cushioning of leaves beneath his boot soles. Wild garlic leaves kissed the hems of his trousers as he eased himself through the gap between two heavy hawthorn bushes and into an old clearing.

There had been some manner of stone circle here once upon a time, he thought, perhaps a very long time ago – the ground was very well-trodden, made up of short grass and moss doing its best to grow over outcrops of broad, flat stone, and to one edge was the heavy log of a fallen oak tree. On one edge of it grew several shelves of yellow mushrooms, sprouting out from the wood in half-umbrellas over one another, but it was to the other edge of the log that Forseti went to, flicking his knife out of his pocket and sliding it into the barely visible crack in the wood trunk’s flesh.

He opened it as easily he might a cabinet, catching the slab of wood he’d carved years on years ago to hide all manner of contraband – books his parents wouldn’t allow him to read (certain novels outlawed by his father, certain books of philosophy; outlawed by his mother the occasional prurient pamphlets or erotic etchings that Murmel or Tor had brought home from sojourns abroad); two bottles of a strong, sweet mead; a carefully-folded waistcoat that was wrapped in wax paper to keep it dry that his father had damn-near hit the roof upon seeing Forseti wear, demanding if it was his intention to be dispatched to a working camp on the heels of that unnatural Irishman Wilde, and declaring he would whip him if he ever saw him wearing it in the company of others again.

It was for none of these sacred objects he reached for: he reached instead for the distinctly unsanctified, tugging out the heavy leather volume from its own envelope of waxed paper, he sat down on the mercifully dry seat of the old log, tugging off his gloves with his teeth and laying them aside.

This was a rather recent discovery – his father had recently been abroad for some weeks, and with the freedom this allotted him, his gaoler temporarily departed, Forseti had been able to go into London with Murmel, Tor, and Hilde.

They had attended the pursuits of any unwise young people, naturally, drinking and dancing and laughing, playing silly parlour games with friends of Torkild’s, and Forseti and Murmel had even taken advantage of their respective siblings’ desire to be alone together and gone off themselves, creeping into an alleyway and then through a secreted passageway.

Murmel had been there before, had even greeted some of the other gentlemen present by name, and the two of them had sat aside in a booth. It had been on their last day in London before getting the train back, and Forseti had been exhausted, had not the energy to join in with the dancing or the games played in that establishment, and twice, he had assured Murmel he hardly minded if he wished to enjoy himself.

“Oh, but I am enjoying myself, Forseti,” Murmel had said quietly, smiling richly and warmly at him over their matched cocktails, their knees brushing under the table.

“I’m meant to be catching my breath,” Forseti had told him dryly, his tone too amused to sound truly scolding. “Is it your desire that you should make me breathless, Mr Wright, and render me very ill indeed in this den of sin?”

“You’re quite right, of course,” Murmel had said with a wink. “I should whisk you away from here and into some sinful bedroom instead, that I might make you breathless there instead.”

Forseti had laughed, and he smiled now, brushing his fingertips back and forth over the aged leather that bound the book in his lap, its weight almost as heavy as Murmel’s ankles rested on his knees, dozing across from him in the train carriage. On their way out of the gentlemen’s club (although Forseti was quite certain no man there had been a gentleman, for he’d worn his favourite waistcoat, and seen another young man wearing rather a similar one with nothing underneath), they’d dipped into some shop of curiosities and antiques, and when Murmel had seen him examining it, he had hurried to pay for the book as a gift without even looking over his shoulder to examine it himself.

“Aren’t you going to ask what you’ve just purchased me?” Forseti had asked when they were settled on the train together, and Murmel had raised his hat from over his twinkling eyes, looking across the carriage at him.

“Is it something very old and rather arcane for my sensibilities, but nonetheless rather naughty?” He’d leaned in to ask the question, and he hadn’t followed Forseti’s automatic gaze to the window in the train carriage door, seeing of Tor and Hilde were looking across at them, but of course, they were embroiled in their own conversations.

Forseti had said, very softly – all the better to encourage Murmel to lean in just a little bit further, so that Forseti could smell the sweet, woody musk of his Belgian cologne, “A not inaccurate summary.”

“Then I need not ask, and merely satisfy myself that I’ve satisfied my obligations well in advance for your birthday,” Murmel had said, and cocked his hat forward again as he’d leaned away.

As Murmel had stretched out and slept as comfortably in the train carriage as an indolent cat, quietly snoring and occasionally mumbling something incoherent but nonetheless flirtatious in its tone in his sleep, Forseti had paged through the book and thrilled at its contents.

Thrilled at the book itself, quite the forbidden piece and exquisitely old, and at the same time thrilled that it had been a gift from Murmel, easy and thoughtless and full to the brim with affection for him.

Murmel and Tor had that in common, an easy capacity for showing affection.

A breeze brushed through his hair, cool and biting on the back of his neck where his hair was pinned up beneath his head, and Forseti inhaled, drumming his fingers against the old, weathered leather of the book in his knees.

“I know, I know,” he murmured to the wind, half-imagining that it was scolding him for being so distracted, thinking of Murmel instead of the distraction at hand – he would be leaving Murmel behind too, after all, if he fled to Norway or to America. Better to busy his anxious mind with other things.

Brushing his fingers over the book’s face, he traced the textured weight of it, touching the small fragments of shiny gilt that remained stuck fast to it, the only memory of the book’s full title, now lost to the passage of time. It was a very heavy tome, and it smelled of the best of the libraries he’d ever stepped into, smelt of paper and ink and dust warmed by scant sunlight.

He was very careful as he cracked open the cover, momentarily holding back the piece of protective wax paper that covered the book’s title page. Each of them was made of a very thick, yellowed parchment paper, the texture wholly different to any paper a book was printed on today. The full cover page had been torn away at some point, but there lingered one half of the title page, where in decadent and swirling black ink were written the words ſpell work.

Every page of the text contained the ingredients or the recipe for some manner of bewitchment or enchantment – Forseti had thought at first that the book was a piece of parody, a well-made curiosity for the theatre or even some avid occultist, but as he’d first begun to page through it on the train, he’d discovered it was far more earnest than that, and in the two or three occasions since he’d managed to make time to peruse it, he’d been more convinced.

This was no parodic facsimile or a silly practical joke – this book purported itself to be and intended itself as a genuine guide for a student of witchcraft.

To think that such ridiculous fantasies might be entertained today, in 1896, with the turn of a new century so close.

Forseti had, of course, been raised on all manner of tales and stories – his own mother had taught them the stories of their homeland, had spun tales as to the coming of Ragnarok, as to the adventures of the Aesir and Vanir, of the Thor from whose name Torkild’s came and Thursday too, of Odin and Freyja, of the great snake Jormungandr, who encircled the world; Vesta, when looking after Tor, Forseti, Hilde, and Murmel, would tell them English tales instead, would tell them of the Black Dog who prowled graveyards and cemeteries, the mere sight of which would frighten you to death, would tell them of fae lands and children who were spirited away by fairies and replaced with uncanny copies, would tell them of white-dressed ladies who haunted great manor houses, waking their inhabitants with shrill, ear-piercing screams.

Vesta and his mother both had talked of witchcraft in the days of old – in Vesta’s tales, such solitary women with their black cats and broomsticks were hunted down by lumberjacks keen to cut them down or priests wanting to burn them at the stake for their sins; in his mother’s, they were somewhat different, were women of wisdom and repute, who delivered babes and tended to sickness, foretold the future in bowls of water or in the bowels of sacrificed animals, or divined further prophecy in the movement of the stars.

For all her stories were more sympathetic and more respectful as to the idea of the völva in contrast to the common English witch, Mother had always come over very stern when they made childhood play at casting spells or making light of such things – she often turned her nose up at the English fairy tales Vesta entertained them with, and Forseti remembered more than once that she’d made scornful comments as to the waking of the Sleeping Beauty or Snow White from their magical comas.

“Curses like that are not so easily reversed,” she’d said scathingly once when she had clapped her hands loudly together and declared that Torkild should not use such words as “curse” so lightly, and Tor had listed off the ways they might be reversed in the stories he’d heard. “Take care what you say, Torkild, and do not let your tongue bind you with a knot you can’t untie.”

Almost everything in this trunk was hidden here because of his father’s disdain and his strictness – this book and its contents was the only thing he would worry at having to explain or justify to Mother.

Forseti had read through a little under half of the volume so far, and it was slow-going – in parts because of the faded ink, or because a paragraph was water stained or on slightly torn parchment, in most places simply because the hand-written text in its swirling script was just very unusual and unfamiliar, and needed a great deal of careful deciphering – but he had been very entertained by what he had read thus far.

Some of them were potions and poultices and embrocations – gels or creams to make and rub into a man’s bald head or to help lance a boil, to ease a child’s teething pains or dry up milk; potions to settle a stomach or to encourage one to vomit, love potions or a poison that promised to make its victim’s teeth fall out; poultices to put on an ailing joint, or a pouch of magic herbs that promised awful nightmares to whomever carried it, unbeknownst, in their pocket or tucked into their bedclothes.

These were the more realistic of the entries – Forseti was no expert in herbalism or natural medicine, and many of the words used for different flowers or herbs were either archaic or simply unfamiliar, but from what mushrooms and plants he did recognise, they seemed suitable for the purposes described in their recipes.

Father said, from time to time, that the witchcraft of the past was the science of today, and had dryly pointed out when overhearing some of Vesta’s tales that the same acts performed by witches, for which they were drowned or stoned or hanged or burned, would have been paid for and celebrated when performed by physicians or Christian priests.

No, magic was one of the few things his father ever seemed to find amusement or entertainment in – perhaps were Forseti to go home and declare his intention to become a witch or warlock, he might finally be satisfied.

“You would favour Tor over me in every venture a man could imagine, and you know it!” he’d snapped that evening. “Any machine in any of our factory buildings, Father, name it, lay it in front of me, I might take it apart and piece it together again; I know every worker by name, I know his address, his children, his age; every one of our account books I might recite from memory, and still, still, you would favour him over me! Just admit it!”

“I will admit to nothing except my own foolishness,” Father had retorted, on his feet, his eyes blazing, the windows near to rattling at the sheer volume of his voice. “Thinking you might amount to anything – is that what you think this work amounts to, boy? Recitations and memorising names and figures!?”

“Well, you won’t let me manage the place, so why—”

“Manage it!” his father had repeated incredulously, the chandelier swinging over their head. “For God’s sake, will you not just stay home!?”

Turning over to the next page he had not yet read through, Forseti stroked over the etching on it, a sketch of a swaddled babe on the side of some sort of hill, or in the midst of a forest glade, perhaps. “Spell to reveal a changeling,” he read aloud, and the wind rose suddenly, coming in such a burst from behind him that it knocked Forseti’s hat from his head, and he let out a short, surprised sound.

Rubbing the back of his neck, soothing the chilly bite of the wind away, he set the book to the side and leaned to reach for it—

And froze.

In stark white, contrasting to the carpet of browns, reds, and oranges beneath his feet, made up of autumn leaves trodden into the mud, was a line of mushrooms curving about one side of the trunk in a neat arc. The toes of his boots were just inside it, and leaning back, he looked on the other side of the log, finding that the arc was mirrored on that side too.

A circle of mushrooms surrounded his log in a clean, well-established ring, surrounded the seat he so often thought his sanctum, and he hadn’t even noticed them, had stepped directly over the line of them with no care, no realisation, no notice at all.

Forseti felt his blood run cold in his veins, chilling him from within, and he pressed his lips tightly together as he snatched up his hat and held it on his knees, cradling it in his lap. It was a silly superstition, as silly as any other, but this was an area where Mother’s tales and Vesta’s crossed over: a ring of mushrooms or a pale ring on grass signified that some strange border had been made, and he was not to cross over them, lest he be whisked away by fairies or vaettir or some other unholy spirit.

Exhaling as he sets his hat aside, he shakes his head and rubs tiredly between his brows. Has he not always thought these superstitions silly? Had he not been thinking, mere moments before, how odd it might be for someone to believe in witchcraft in so modern age as this?

For God’s sake, why should he have let himself be so startled, anxious at being spirited away by some magical creature that didn’t even exist?

Shaking his head at his own stupidity, Forseti drew his book back into his lap, tracing the lines of small, scrawling text with his finger, puzzling it out letter by letter and thanking every spirit of mercy imaginable that in the intervening time between this book’s publication and his own attendance at school, someone had thought to standardise English spelling.

“An offering to a Faerie,” he read aloud, his voice low, “ought be made with the greatest diffidence. The Faeries are fickle beings, notoriously Hot of Blood, and they might take Offence at Any Slight.”

Forseti half-expected the laughter of the trees once again, but it didn’t come. Looking about the clearing, he saw it was as unchanging as ever, saw the branches over his head rustling in the wind. Something was wrong here, something slightly off, and he couldn’t place his finger on it – the trees about him were the same as ever, a willow and some oaks and birches and a dying yew; the leaves beneath his feet were the same, the mud well-trodden; the flowers and undergrowth, the bushes. A bird was sitting on a branch – he didn’t know their names like Murmel did, and certainly couldn’t identify them with just a passing glance before they fluttered away. He was lucky to identify this one as an evening bird but not an owl, and it was possible he was wrong.

He realised what exactly was so strange about the clearing around him as the bird fluttered away – he couldn’t hear it.

He heard no sound at all.

Forseti could not hear the rustle of the leaves, nor the evening song or flutter of the birds. He couldn’t even hear his own breaths, hear his own heartbeat – he had never experienced such eerie silence as this, such uncanny and unnatural quiet.

“Hello?” he called, but although he felt the weight of the word on his tongue, although he felt its vibration in his mouth, he heard nothing, nothing, nothing! Breathing somewhat faster, Forseti took up his book and clasped it tighter to his chest. Whatever force was compelling him within the mushroom circle he’d crossed into, be it fate, divinity, or even fae magic, he felt his gaze drawn downward, and he looked to the mushrooms over which he had (unthinkingly! Unknowingly!) crossed to reach his usual seat, and there, there, shooting up from the road like so many infernal geysers were bursts of blood.

The brown mud beneath his feet stained with it, spattering in thick red upon his dark shoes, upon the hems of his trousers, and Forseti felt real terror strike his heart now.

Clutching his book tight to himself as if it might shield his breast, his hat and gloves forgotten, he crossed the line of red mushrooms, no longer white, and began to run, his feet pounding on the ground.

He was not so far into the woods, and he might have made his retreat blindfolded (had done so before) – he ran until the path toward the orchard was within sight, and yet he felt, felt without looking, without hearing it, that something was in his pursuit. The very hairs on the back of his neck, thin and light and very fine, were standing on their end, and he couldn’t bear even to imagine what he might see if he turned his head to look behind him.

What slavering beast was giving chase, its breath hot on the nape of his neck and those sensitive little hairs that covered it, its snapping jaws so very close? What dragon or ogre, jotun or faerie, was going to grab him about the middle, by the scruff of the neck – or hook him about the ankle?

His foot caught in an unexpected root, and he cried out in fear and shock alike as he lost his balance and landed hard onto the ground, his book beneath him. Closing his eyes tightly and feeling himself tremble as he braced himself for whatever death was about to alight on him, he pressed his forehead into the clay-rich dirt, its scent filling his nose, and yet—

There was no snapping jaw upon him, wrenching his head from his neck. There was no monster’s claw upon him, ripping him from belly to chest, no beast, no nothing.

There was nothing.

Forseti sat up on his knees, looking with staring eyes about himself, and yet he spied nothing out of the ordinary. The trees at the edge of the forest behind him were rustling gently in the breeze, birds singing, and close by he could hear the soft babble of the stream that ran between the forest and the orchard, a natural border.

Sighing hard, Forseti put his dirty face in his hands, feeling the sweat on his skin, and then he picked up his book and clutched it in his arms, holding it to his breast. If he was frightening himself like a child in the woods, it was a sign he ought soon home and to bed…

And then what? To argue with Father? Console Mother? Make plans to flee to Oslo, or else New York?

“If only magic were real,” Forseti muttered himself, wiping dust and dirt away from the cover of the book and taking its protective envelope out from where it was folded against the back cover, wrapping it up again. “Father could hardly fault me then, could he, book? Just snap my fingers, and there—” Forseti snapped his fingers, and his eyes were stunned by a sudden flash. Blinking a few times, he stared down at his own empty hand, tightening his grip on the book against his other hip. “—be fire,” he finished in a whisper.

It was the worst of habits to talk to oneself, he knew, but this…

Forseti snapped his fingers again. Nothing happened.

On the grass ahead of him were his top hat and gloves, dropped ahead of him as he’d fallen – but hadn’t he left them behind? He didn’t know any longer. He felt dizzy and a little confused, too hot under his suit and coat even though it wasn’t at all a warm day.

Forseti put the back of his hand to his forehead, feeling for a temperature – undoubtedly, he was a little more warm than he ought be, and yet this strange turn, moments of deafness, frighting at faeries and imaginary blood, now seeing sparks where there were none?

He’d had migraines before, and he hoped this was not a new precursor.

Sighing, he picked up his gloves and slightly muddied hat, and began the walk home.

* * *

Forseti slept ill that night. He tossed and turned in his bed, his skin hot to the touch and his flesh feverish, and drink as he might from the jug of water beside his bed, twice he had to call for the boy to refill it. By morning, he was laid out in his bed, his skin chalky in colour, and Mother sat beside him, soothing his hot brow with cool cloths.

“You oughtn’t have walked in the woods in such inclement weather,” she said quietly.

“It was a fine day,” Forseti told her, his voice hoarse.

In the open door of his bedroom, he saw the shadow of his father hovering in the doorway. Would he enter, Forseti wondered? Would he face his son even as he lay abed, sick as a dog? Sick as he so often was?

The shadow passed away.

“I thought so,” he muttered.

“What’s that, Ansgar?”

“Nothing.”

“Sleep, my dear,” Mother murmured, and Forseti let his eyes shut closed, doing his best to sleep once more.

---

Will be rated E and will contain lots of sex and magic when I get to it.

Half a decade ago I pursued the raw concept of this idea in an unfinished Grandmaster/Loki Marvel fanfic called The Faerie Ring, but I lacked the skill to really execute it to its full potential, let alone to complete it. This story is going to bear some similarity to that original story, but I have quite a different plot planned — I just wanted to mention it in case it struck people as familiar.

[mementoboni]

PHALARIS booklet track by track commentary

Notes before reading:

Source: Booklet of DIR EN GREY's album "PHALARIS"(2022), comments from members on each song.

I translated the content into Chinese in July 2022, and the English version was translated in May 2023. (*) are my own thoughts or additions.

Kyo added "ね (ne)" at the end of almost every line, which indicates a tone of voice that's difficult to understand and translate through words.

Toshiya commented on each song almost exclusively in terms of its lyrics. So it may be a bit confusing to read.

Repost and share are welcome.🙌 Please feel free to correct me if you spot any mistake or any confusing parts.☺️

--------

Disc1

01. Schadenfreude

Kyo: It's long. Kaoru: It was September 2020 when I created the demos for a slow-tempo song and a fast-paced song at the same time. I think we decided to pre-produce the fast-paced song and rejected the slow-tempo song. After that, I tried to keep the galloping feeling of the song, but I couldn't get a good feeling for it and time passed. In 2021, we started talking about having a long song, so I struggled to make the song longer, but it didn't take shape well. In the spring of 2021, when I was struggling with the idea, I remembered the existence of a slow-tempo song I had created around the same time, so I decided to put in the taste of that song and started a major remodeling. Since the song had been rejected, I kept the rhythm, changed the riffs and worked on it as hard as I could. When the band members heard the demo, they decided to go with this style, but again, it didn't turn out well. The longer the song gets, the more I want to add waves of development, but it just didn't feel exciting enough. At that time, one of the members suggested to me that I should try to make the whole piece more intense. And so the great adventure began again. It was really hard to finish at this point in time, but it turned out well. Please enjoy the wave of fury that is revealed from the first song. Die: As the first song in the album, it is a symbol of "PHALARIS". Toshiya: The door to "PHALARIS" opens from this song. The entrance to the dazzling labyrinth, fumbling the way to hell. Shinya: This song is packed with super difficult drum phrases from the first track on the album. I personally like the phrases in 4:30 because they seem mature.

02. 朧 (Oboro)

Kyo: It's dark. Kaoru: I created this song with the expectation that it would be in a good position on the album, but since it was to be a single, I kept it rather simple. I thought about changing it a lot for the album, but decided to leave it as is. Die: The moment "Schadenfreude" passes and the sound of this intro rings, my spine is chilling. Toshiya: Here, beg and pray for forgiveness. Shinya: At first I couldn't remember the complicated drum beat of A-Melo (Verse) at all, but I've played it at Live many times, so I'm pretty used to it. It's medium speed, but the drum is very delicate.

03. The Perfume of Sins

Kyo: It's fast. Kaoru: When I first started working on the demo, I wanted to make a dark and impactful song like before. I thought about trying the fast rhythm of "tsuta tsuta" that haven't seen for a long time, and it turned out to be such a clang song. Die: From the ground-crawling guitar riffs to the super-fast beat, it's thrilling. Toshiya: Let's drown in the scintillation. Shinya: The fastest phrase in the album comes out. Even if it's 0.01 seconds, it's so fast that you can't see it anymore, and it takes a lot of concentration, so it's going to be hard even at live.

04. 13

Kyo: It's the 4th song. Kaoru: This song was created around the same time as "Oboro," and I thought the development after the chorus connecting to Die's solo turned out to be a nice touch. Die: DIR EN GREY-style emotional. Toshiya: At the end of the stairs. Shinya: The song is melodious and easy to listen to, but the drums are strangely complicated. It ends without a normal beat from beginning to end.

05. 現、忘我を喰らう (Utsutsu, Bouga wo Kurau)

Kyo: I'm trying to sing in an interesting way. Kaoru: The song came out quite a while ago, but we started working on it towards the end. It is a song with strong character, and I think everyone will like it. Die: Irregular rhythms and monophonic guitar riffs. Unique ambiance. Toshiya: Dancing the rondo of life. Shinya: It is a song with a special rhythm pattern full of rest marks. This song ends without a normal beat. It seems that it is very difficult to get used to the body.

06. 落ちた事のある空 (Ochita Koto no Aru Sora)

Kyo: Hope it doesn't fall off again. Kaoru: Actually, we produced this song for a commission case. So, we have put our own style in full throttle. By the way, that case seems to have been lost. (*I wonder what kind of commission case it is. 🤔) Die: Melodies intertwined with dizzying guitar riffs. Dense. Toshiya: Eagerly waiting for the tomorrow that will never come. Shinya: The drums were rather complicated, but the songs so far are so intense that it sounds simple now. I've played this song many times in live performances, and the groove is perfect.

07. 盲愛に処す (Mouai ni Shosu)

Kyo: Mouai-san. Kaoru: It's all about imagining what it feels like to move the atmosphere. I think this is the last song in the album that we started working on. It might have been finished early. Die: The hooky rhythm is pleasant. Toshiya: This place is everything. Shinya: The drums are busy with many phrases involving toms. I have to create a syncopated groove, so I divide my head into two parts and play while thinking about each part separately.

08. 響 (Hibiki)

Kyo: It's emo. Kaoru: This song was created from a demo we had in the past, just as the album songs were almost ready to be released. Die-kun made an unique arrangement of the song. Die: The feeling of being saved by the light at the end. Toshiya: Stand in silence in front of the empty shells. Shinya: The drums are played in a strange way from the beginning to the end. If you listen only to the drums, it will probably make no sense.

09. Eddie

Kyo: It's fast. Kaoru: It started out as a light-hearted song, but we thought it could be taken to a more violent level. The tempo was sped up and the riffs were roughed up to make it a raging song. I am looking forward to the live performance. Die: I didn't expect to end up with such a hard core from that prototype. Toshiya: Covered in shit. Shinya: It's just fast. It starts with momentum, moves forward with momentum, and when I notice it, it's already over. The drums are just like before, full of guts.

10. 御伽 (Otogi)

Kyo: It's otogi ↑, not otogi ↓, right? Kaoru: It reminds me a little of the old days, but I think it's a type of song that never existed before. There may be a lot of such songs in this album. This is a song that feels good to play. Die: The guitar riffs and melodies with open strings are beautiful. Toshiya: Show love with the tip of my numb fingers. Shinya: It's a song filled with my own drum phrases. I personally like the part of 1:47, where I use the high-hat and the ride cymbal to create a semiquaver rhythm.

11. カムイ (Kamuy)

Kyo: The sound is beautiful. Kaoru: This song was even more difficult than "Schadenfreude”. I created this song with the idea that it would be the one to take over after the departure of "Oboro" as a single. It’s a song with new parts and a strong DIR EN GREY feel. Die: The moment when the heavy guitar riff instantly erases the sad sound of the acoustic guitar. Toshiya: The door to "PHALARIS" closes with this song. Today I step on worthless bugs again, I am the same human being. Shinya: This song is also full of my own drum phrases. My personal favorites are the toms at 2:47 and the snare drum phrases at 5:43.

. . .

Disc2

01. mazohyst of decadence

Kyo: It's dark. Burning with jealousy. Kaoru: I think we rearranged it when we used to play it at a live show, and newly arranged it to the latest version. I played the sitar again since the recording of this song at that time, but it was only used in a very small part of the song. Die: Heavier and deeper. Toshiya: When the Ubume cries. (*Ubume (產女，うぶめ) is a Japanese Youkai, which is transformed from the obsession of a woman who died in childbirth.) Shinya: The structure of the song has changed rather a lot from the original, so I thought of the drums again with a new feeling based on the previous phrases.

02. ain't afraid to die

Kyo: If I sing it in 2022, it will be like this. Kaoru: I wondered what it would be like if we did it now without messing with it too much, so I just went along with it. The solo part was a little bit calculated because I couldn't show the roughness at that time. I played the solo many times, but that's a secret between us. Die: I still remember when we finished part of the song and slept together during the pre-production. Toshiya: For the last time this year. Shinya: I completely recreated the phrases from those days. Even listening to it now, I quite like the drum phrases.

(END)

— — —

中文翻譯 → here (My Blogger)

[sidhewrites]

Seventeen! I've got all these notes about how I want Mr. Ngo to be more involved, and that he deserves to also be a Graveyard Lesbian but I can't figure out exactly where he'd fit in so for now, he's a supporting character instead.

Fun fact number 2 this is going very different than intended, where MagnusRenfield was going to get major spooky powers that would allow him to open up a portal to the spirit world and suck the town into it.

I uh...don't think that's gonna happen anymore but we'll see how it goes.

Project Info

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There's no such luck waiting for me. A light's on in the front office, with Mr. Ngo waiting for me.  Mr Ngo is waiting for me. I'm exhausted as it is, and I brace myself for a proper chewing out. "Good morning."

"Hiya boss. You're here early."

"Everything okay at home?"

"It, uh..." I rub my arms, feeling the gauze under my sweater's sleeves, and shrug. "It's been a time."

"It seems like it. Maybe you should take another day off. Come back when you're ready."

Something in his tone sets me on edge, heart leaping to my throat. "No -- no, it's fine. I'm fine, I can--"

"Kaz," he says. "I had a weird message on the answering machine yesterday. I'm very worried about you."

Oh no, I think, and try to smile. “What’s up?”

"Those nice people who filmed here the other day, they say you’re calling them and want them to come back."

"I..."

"Kaz, that's very unlike you. What's going on? Do you know how unprofessional that is? "

I know. I know it is. But I don’t know how to sit down and explain to him that not only are ghosts apparently real, but that Mick and Lourdes accidentally summoned an evil one and it’s now possessing my ex girlfriends cat except they thought they were talking to my new kind of girlfriend, who, it turns out, is also a ghost and I’m somehow a medium caught up in the middle of this. “I can explain,” I lie. I have no idea how to explain any of it.

"Kaz."

"Mr. Ngo, listen... things -- it's..." I falter.

He sighs, and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Go get some rest, Kaz. You look like you haven't slept in days. I can handle the graveyard until you're feeling better."

"No -- no, Mr. Ngo, please. I'm fine, really -- I...It won't happen again, I promise. It--"

"Kaz." He looks almost sad. "Get some rest. You've been working very hard lately. I think it would be good to spend less time among the dead, and a bit more among the living for a few days."

I want to argue. I want to beg forgiveness. I want to fall to the ground and tell him everything, if only so he'd stop looking at me like that. But I don't.  I do as I'm told. I apologize one more time, and then I go home, dragging my sorry ass back to the apartment, and fall right back into bed to sleep as long as I possibly could. Somehow, I sleep through the day again -- the week of all-nighters finally catching up to me, and only stir hours later, when the familiar sound of kitty feet patter across the floor.

Renfield doesn't get the zoomies often anymore, but it happens occasionally. I'll wake up in the middle of the night, waddling around like a wild animal, traveling at the speed of slow. He takes his little ramp up to the bed, pounces on my foot, and meeps for attention. Just like always, I roll over and mumble out a little, "Go to sleep, little boy."

Renfield pads across the bed again, leaps down to the ground, and waddles out, then back in and up onto the bed once more to tap my face.

"C'mon, baby," I mumble, still half asleep as he trots around the apartment. "I'll get you breakfast in an hour."

"It's not breakfast I'm looking for."

Suddenly I'm wide awake. Renfield sits there, fur almost glowing in the light that shines in from the street outside, eyes glowing yellow. "Good morning, dear Kaz. It's been far too long."

"Jesus fuck!" I bolt up, nearly falling off the bed. He doesn't move, just watching me scrabble uselessly for a second before I find purchase and leap to my feet.

"Are you done?"

"What the fuck!" I shout.

Magnus sighs. "Let me know when you're done with the hysterics. I have a proposal."

"Leave my cat alone."

"That's part of the plan."

"What? Wait -- but--"

"How am I here? Please." He makes a show of licking his paw, letting me get a good look at the dried blood around his mouth.

"Did you...You didn't..."

"I'm an expedient man, Kaz. I had to get out the door somehow."

[Something.]

"Here's the deal, dearest Kaz. There's something interesting going on lately. The moon's getting full, and I'm pleased to find out what day it is. In a few days, it'll be Hallow's eve, and I have a few suspicions. I don't need much from you, of course. Just get me outside, into the crowds. I'll take care of the rest."

But before he can say more, his strength wanes. Renfield's pupils dilate once more, and he returns to himself. He's confused again, not sure how he got there.

I pick up my phone right away and call Josie. "I think we're running out of time."

Tag List

@adaughterofathena

@ambreeskyewriting

@carnelianflames

@feather-dancer

@halfbloodlycan

@nadunacreates

@serenanymph

@vigilantdesert

[deep-hearts-core]

(tonight we're gonna party like it's) 1999

god damn i haven't done one of these in a while. its charlotte nilsson time baybee

Lithuania REAL SHAME about this staging. it's a nice song and aiste has a great voice clearly but she doesn't have the right kind of stage presence for this. the dancing around that she was doing didn't feel right for this genre, it was discordant and distracting. also the pink lighting didn't work. if i could go back in time and fix this i'd tell the lithuanian delegation to keep the camera close on her upper body at all times.

Belgium nice song nice voice well staged but she's too damn quiet. i can't really hear her. especially at the beginning. sad bc i have no other complaints about this one except for maybe "is that guy blowing into a horseshoe crab?".

Spain she's a good singer so it's a shame about that dress. also, the verses are kind of boring and i only really enjoy the chorus. also, i keep misremembering this song as having the tune of a bosnian song called "zena svijetom upravlja" or something like that that a friend of mine submitted to a tumblr fancontest forever ago. also also, did i mention that dress? distracting.

Croatia love the "ah-ah-ah-ah"s in the chorus. favorite thing about this song. (maybe because that's what's familiar because that's the thing that everyone puts in the fourth place compilation recap vids or whatever). she looks nice in that dress i guess but something feels kind of off with the staging. i can definitely tell that this followed immediately after dana international. there's something in the way she's moving that's making it clear she's trying to imitate dana in some way.

UK i love this one!! love a girl band, the main singer is really good, and those silver outfits are great. that "say it again, say yeah" is the most catchy/memorable line i've heard so far tonight that i hadn't already seen in a recap video. unfortunately one of the girls was a little pitchy in the high harmonies and that got on my nerves a little.

Slovenia i mean i don't love it but there's nothing to hate about it really. she sounds good. nice classic eurovision ballad.

Turkey this is every turkish entry ever, right? it's not bad really it's just not my speed. i spent most of my time watching this thinking about danish barbershop quartet the clementones and admiring the stage, because this year's stage is cool. more on that later.

Norway ngl kind of disappointed? the dance routine was good, i guess? idk it's not my kind of song and he wasn't great vocally. and that shirt wsa sort of. a choice. didn't work imo.

Denmark you can always count on denmark to do a good happy duet with a guitar. love this. if they hadn't fucked up that very last note this would have been absolutely perfect to me. <3

France like if that song "free fallin'" got eurovision'd.

Netherlands early dutch country is also every eurovision song that follows it for the next like 5-6 years, more at 10! nah but it's alright. and she's pretty, which helps. the song started before she started singing and i was like "?? this is gonna be so good?" and then i remembered it was the netherlands and my expectations instantly went medium. lol.

Poland great belt on this man. not like a literal belt but like his voice near the end when he's belting his high notes, that's good. good tone. song's ok i guess.

Iceland this song slams and i fucking love it in studio but the staging was... a little too over the top, tbh?

Cyprus her voice isn't a good fit. the slow start goes on for just a little too long and she's just kind of shrill.

Sweden it's good, i can see why it won, but her outfit is just so MUCH. i hope it was a candidate for barbara dex. the eyeshadow. the flesh colored fabric underneath the pretend crop top. no thank you charlotte.

Portugal not bad. rui bandeira is kind of a guy who looks like a girl who looks like a boy iykwim. idk it kinda sounds like all the other ones.

Ireland this song is too low for them and it does funny things to their tone quality. too much vibrato.

Austria she's cute, i like the guitar line, this is very radio-friendly and american in a way that allowed me to like... yes tune out but not tune all the way out and just kind of vibe.

Israel it is a sign of how brainpoisoned i have become that i saw a quartet of guys on the stage and thought, "ah yes, the guy in the different shirt is the lead, he has the tenor and the bass on either side of him, and the other guy is the bari". i'm in hell. good song though. i mean i guess. why is it happy birthday?

Malta their harmonies aren't really locking. given, i have a much higher bar for that these days due to the aforementioned brainpoison, but still, some of these chords are heinous. also the song is just sort of not good.

Germany song is alright except for the bridge which is unnecessarily cheesy. i mean, even for the thing that it is, which is a eurovision song.

Bosnia & Herz d... dino merlin? idk this one is weird, they're like conjugating french verbs or something and also this one was muted in the video archive i had and the dino merlin official youtube upload had terrible audio quality so i feel like i can't really judge it

Estonia the onstage aesthetic vibe of this is beautiful, and i like the song, too. it's a shame that it's not a good vocal fit for evelin. a clear precursor to randajad and good use of the stage too.

My top 23 1)Denmark 2)Estonia 3)Portugal 4)Iceland 5)Sweden 6)Austria 7)Belgium 8)Poland 9)Israel 10)Germany 11)UK 12)Slovenia 13)Spain 14)Croatia 15)Ireland 16)Turkey 17)Netherlands 18)Lithuania 19)Cyprus 20)France 21)Norway 22)Bosnia 23)Malta

shoutouts again to my friend rachel's prefsorter, because we can't always have gerbear

Miscellaneous commentary the little cgi tour of europe at the beginning was cute. but also very funny because of how squished together and contiguous everything was. lmao @ the host greeting the "distinguished guests" and everyone there in nice clothes. like wow the contest has changed in 20 years obsessed with these postcards btw. cartoon eve fully tits out. jesus represented as a hot guy in a suit. joseph and his brothers singing in barbershop harmony. the baby moses video game. priceless recaps are so short? i already have a hard time remembering how each song goes but like the recap snippets help absolutely not at all lol at the sun prop. it was a really excellent stage, honestly, a lot of contestants were able to use it really well, but after last year's debacle i just kept giggling whenever i saw the thing move. overall like...it's hard to judge the songs in this era, it's hard to rank them, because really i don't like most of them? like they just aren't really my style. i feel like for many of the 90s rankings the margins between songs are going to be very thin and i'm going to have trouble remembering a lot. i don't listen to a lot of 90s music so it's like... ok? sure? do i even know if this is good? no i don't!

[analogplaysgamessometimes]

Mafia III: Definitive Edition Review

CONTENT WARNING: The following review includes images and descriptions of fictionalized violence and blood. Additionally it includes mention and discussion of racist violence and racist terror organizations such as the KKK.

Mafia III (2016) Definitive Edition (2020)

Publisher: 2K

Developer: Hangar 13

Genres: Action-Adventure, Third Person Shooter

Platform: PlayStation 4

Medium: Digital

101 Hours 29 Minutes

7.6/10

The final game in the Mafia Trilogy, Mafia III, sees us take on the role of Lincoln Clay, a special operations Vietnam veteran. Returning home to New Bordeaux (this universe's New Orleans stand in) it doesn't take long for his world to be turned upside down when a job goes wrong and he's back stabbed. From that point on, the game is a quest for revenge on the people who took everything from you. Sounds pretty enticing right? So how'd it fall short?

Well we'll get there but you know I always prefer to start with the positives. First of all this game's use of its 60s era soundtrack is phenomenal. So many moments in this game are made 10 times better because of the music scoring them. Like a high speed boat chase scene through sewer tunnels set to Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf, or a massive shootout set to Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues. It's fantastic. Mafia III is at its strongest with its characters and plot lines. I genuinely cared about these people and what happened to them, I was rooting for them. Even the ones I didn't really like, we were on the same team. Lincoln as a protagonist was interesting and well written. His motivations stayed believable and easy to embody through the whole of the game's run time. He may be my favorite protagonist of any of the Mafia games. It doesn't hurt that he's quite handsome too, looks incredible in a suit vest.

Additionally the game's weapons sand box is much larger and, from what I could tell, largely historically accurate. This allowed for massively varied approaches to different situations I came across, even including suppressed weapons now that we're up into the 60s. Let me tell you, stealth in this game feels great. As an afterthought I'll add that I really enjoyed the way in which the game framed the story. The documentary style cutscenes with people talking about the events of the game after the fact was something I quite enjoyed. It served as a good tone setter for the significance of the things you did as you played.

With that being said I think where this game falls short, and it would seem many agree with me, is in the gameplay aspects. Firstly with driving, much of the nuance of the previous Mafia games was gone. No longer is there a speed limiter allowing for RP driving, nor will cops chase you for speeding. Cops no longer have varied responses to things in general, as they did in Mafia II, instead all piling on like GTA cops. I will admit that the previous point may be due to something I'll talk about later in this review, but even still it stands out as a lack of gameplay depth comparatively. Much of the combat feels overly difficult at times, not because of difficult enemies but because of hordes of them descending upon you. It was just easier to avoid open gunfights all together wherever possible. This coupled with the brutal checkpoint system (granted not as brutal as Mafia II's) led to some real moments of frustration.

I experienced a small handful of glitches and performance issues, the biggest of which being a handful of game crashes and my in game map (full and mini) glitching and becoming fully useless until I reset. Some other things I encountered that were less egregious were occasional texture pop ins and a few NPCs fully T-posing.

Now I would like to move on to my biggest criticism of Mafia III. It should be stated from here on out there will be discussions of historical racism and racist violence, if this is not to your comfort then I will mark the beginning and end of this segment with ** so it can be easily skipped.

**

I think Mafia III, plot wise, is actually a strong entry. A major theme of all the Mafia games has been racism and America's relationship to it. In the first game it was exploring how racism and prejudice against immigrants in the late 19th and early 20th centuries led to the mob forming in America and becoming as powerful as it was. In the second it peels back the rose tinted glasses white folk gaze at the 40s and 50s through to show how deeply racist and difficult times they were for anyone who was maybe even just the wrong type of white. In the third it examines and comments on the life of black folk in the deep south during the late 60s, an era where segregation was still strongly enforced despite having been repealed federally, and the area in which they lived was (and still is in many ways) deeply racist. They go so far as to give the series its first black protagonist to explore this more fully. Their commentary is not particularly nuanced, but here are two things I think really bring it down. This is a Mafia game. A game about committing violent crime and suffering next to no repercussions for it. As Lincoln Clay, you are a big scary man with a gun in a video game about crime. No one can tell you not to enter their business, you will simply do it anyway and beat the shit out of them or even murder them and will suffer no repercussions for this. They cannot attempt to lynch you, you are a big scary man with a gun in a video game about crime who's basically a walking, talking, living, breathing tank who will again suffer no repercussions for what you do. It's like trying to tell the Payday Gang to not rob a bank.

While this is a great power fantasy, a wonderful revenge fantasy, it really cheapens the stress and anger and frustration that a real black man in this time and place would have experienced in Lincoln's shoes, thus (in my opinion) somewhat cheapening the commentary.

I walk into a whites only business and the worst that happens (assuming I don't immediately deck the clerk, again suffering little to no repercussions), is that the clerk waves their fist at me and goes "why I oughta! Imma call the cops iffin' you don't leave!" And the situation is always easily defused by leaving or otherwise "incapacitating" said clerk. 

Secondly, they go really hard in the paint in some places. The slurs, including hard R N-words, are thrown freely and with reckless abandon and the depiction of violent racism is depressingly accurate and also frequent. This goes so far as to even set one of the DLC in a sundown town (if you dont know what that is, educate yourself). But, for some fucking reason, they won't call the Ku Klux Klan the Ku Klux Klan. They're the "Southern Union."

Even though they dress and are organized and behave exactly like the KKK. Don't get it twisted. They're the Southern Union for suuuure! I am strongly of the belief that when you are depicting something like this in history, it is important not to omit things for the comfort of a modern audience. It should make them uncomfortable. That's what gets the point across that these things are wrong and can't be allowed to continue or happen again. Changing something's name or the symbolism behind it can make it easier for there to be a disconnect in the audience's head from what's being depicted in media and what really happened or is actively happening.

I would like to say that all of this is written from the perspective of a white man, so it may not be my place to speak on these matters at all, but I felt that given the story Mafia III was trying to tell, it was important to mention. My point is that I could see where Mafia III was going and in some ways it succeeded, but I don't think it succeeded as much as it could have.

**

Mafia III: Sign of the Times (2017)

The first DLC I played for Mafia III, Sign of the Times, follows Lincoln and Father James as they investigate a cult after saving a girl named Anna from a grizzly fate at their hands.

All in all it was a neat experience but I felt it was the weakest of the three DLC. While the crime scene investigations were very cool, and there were moments that made Mafia III feel more akin to something out of a survival horror game, it ultimately fell flat. The rather generic, spooky drugged up cult that comprises the DLC's primary antagonists is largely to blame for this.

It does introduce a few characters I adore, like Oscar, and gives you a way in which to renovate and restore Sammy's Bar which is delightful. Those positives are immediately countered, however, by the fact that the one character we're really supposed to care about, Anna, is poorly written. She did not have the on screen chemistry with Lincoln the game tries to push on the audience, leading to it feeling forced. There's no real point or benefit to renovating Sammy's, either, except having a nicer looking home base.

Mafia III: Faster, Baby! (2017)

The second DLC I played, Faster, Baby!, sees Lincoln assisting the Voice and his daughter Roxy build a case against the head pig of a sundown town just outside New Bordeaux's city limits. This DLC honestly goes really hard and may be my favorite of the three.

It's just dumb fucking fun. It primarily consists of driving around as fast as possible, tearing Sinclair Parish down to its foundations and killing racist cops. The antagonist, Sheriff Walter Beaumont, is a shit eating scumbag who I hated from the very moment he walked on screen and continued to hate and want to destroy until the moment I kicked his teeth in at the DLC's conclusion. Roxy and Lincoln have fantastic chemistry and I can't think of a character I would have rathered he had a romance scene with. Also you have a massive gunfight with the Klan on a burning weed farm set to Paint it Black by the Rolling Stones and if that's not enough for you, I don't know what is.

In all seriousness though, I think my only complaints about this DLC is that it reuses mission types and that building up your grow operation is tedious and repetitive. Otherwise it's great!

Mafia III: Stones Unturned (2017)

The last of Mafia III's DLC, Stones Unturned, sees Lincoln and his friend and CIA contact, Donovan, rekindle their roles as covert operatives for the US government. This DLC involves a jungle, the Witness Protection Program, PMCs, .50 caliber machine guns, clandestine CIA operations, and nuclear weapons. What more could you ask for?

I honestly don't have much more to say about this one, it was a fun romp but not as notable as Faster, Baby! I will say, you get some drippy as fuck tac gear from it though.

Mafia III is, in my opinion, a genuinely strong entry into the Mafia franchise, probably one of my favorites. With DLC leagues better than any that II had to offer and arguably my favorite protagonist in the series, I recommend it even to people who haven't played the other Mafia games. I will caution you however to only do so if you're OK with letting a game coast off its characters and story for 100+ hours, and not its gameplay loop. I'm eager to see what Hangar 13 cooks up for Mafia IV! In the meantime, come on down to the French Ward!

[commiemartyrshighschool]

Two things have been on my mind lately.

It is not enough to be right, you also need to be persuasive.

Video essays are significantly more work than written essays.

That comes together, I think, in making video essays a preferred medium for ideas at the moment. They hold your attention and hit you with sound and visuals alongside words that invite concentration but not thought. They're performed in a way that tone of voice, facial expression, and visual display of information are at least as important as the text being delivered.

Being a good video essayist requires not just a way with words, but also editing skills and the ability to not only make a case but be an orator.

A slick, well produced video essay is a lot of work, and if you don't have all the resources necessary yourself to pull it together you need the resources necessary to pull together a team that can do it.

In essence it becomes much harder to "argue back" in a medium where you need to do a lot more than simply write a response.

Now, writing ability varies considerably among people, even before accounting for things like discussions with multilingual dimensions. But almost anybody on Earth who would care to respond to a written essay on the internet has access to a keyboard! Not everybody can become a novelist or essayist for the ages, but even minimal practice and reading can improve anybody's ability.

But video essays have essentially raised the barrier to entry in participating in many conversations. Only a handful are truly consequential, to be sure, but the comment section is almost always going to be relegated to a peanut gallery unless the channel runner takes the time to respond in a video format.

This, I believe, creates a sort of assumed parasociality to watching a video essayist. Because even if the ideas are on your level the presentation is more likely than not, well beyond you.

But a written essay? There might be apparent differences in writing ability, and being persuasive is distinct from being right as well, yet you won't be able to tell if the response was made on a new computer or an old one, who has the bigger stock asset library, the nicer set, the better camera, the quickest cuts. Things that absolutely do matter in a video essay, as does if the watcher finds the essayist attractive, or feel they look trustworthy.

I don't know if there's any way TO actually bring back a public appreciation for essays though. Less than 60 percent of millennials EVER read newspapers, and older generations don't lag far behind on that stat. The internet is ostensibly a great place to discover, read, and share essays but now that video essays can be delivered at watchable speeds even if they're in HD and four hours long they have almost no competitive advantage.

Text oriented platforms do exist, but they're skewed towards the pithy and combative, the hot takes of twitter, bluesky, threads, what have you. I'm not sure that traditional forums, even the few that exist, are free from that either.

I dunno, it's part of why when I published my magazine I really wanted that magazine format, that print-ability. Wish I had the time and energy to get past Issue Zero.

But it seems to me that might be where some of the hope is to be found, collections and curations with accessible submissions.

Anyways, another perk of the written essay is that you don't need to plot the whole thing out. You can just kinda jam and dash off thoughts without an ending sorted.

[lys1]

Congratulations! You waited so patiently <3 This is another Asra x fem!reader for you. NSFW. 5218 words. 

Playing With Potions

—————

The late spring morning air was warming up to be a balmy 75 degrees. You had your skirt pulled down and up, tucked in the back of the waistband, forming makeshift shorts. The shop was somewhat quiet, yet the din from the streets made its nimble way through the open windows.

You descend the ladder to the box of ingredients you were unpacking. They had come in the previous evening and Asra had promptly asked you to “organize them later”. Of course you said yes, the two of you shared this shop after all, and the work that came with it.

Asra himself was bustling behind the counter, sweeping the wooden floors free of the dust and fallen ingredients. He stops momentarily to pick up his cup of tea and take a long sip. The jasmine tea's steam billows into his face as he sighs with content pleasure.

The floorboards creak as you step down and Asra looks over at you, gaze soft. "How's the supplies look, dear?" He asks curiously, returning the cup to it’s coaster.

"Ah," you muse, counting the small containers in your hands. "Looks like we will be all set on lizard toes for a while, I think our supply captain read 1000 instead of 100." You can't help but chuckle, it couldn't be helped, at least you wouldn’t have to order more for a while.

Asra's eyes open a little wider, "oh my." He laughs, "I suppose we won’t". He sets his broom to rest against the counter and bare feet pad over to you, his deep-purple eyes examining the products.

You feel his hand settle on your waist subconsciously; a side effect of being close to one another. You breathe in lightly, smelling the sweet scent of coconut and honied biscuits wash over you. Asra's breakfast choice was apparent.

"Mm," you say, turning so the two of you were face to face. "You smell delicious."

Asra smiles, box in his hand now a little less important. "Care for a taste?" He teases, eyes falling to your parted lips. He sets his lizard toes aside and joins his other hand at your waist. You look up at him through your eyelashes and nod.

He is a mere millimeter from sealing the gap between you when the bell of the shop jingles merrily.

"Ah jeez," you huff good in good nature. "I forgot we have jobs and responsibilities."

Asra laughs at your obvious disappointment and steals a small peck. "Unfortunately, we have to eat somehow." He then turns away and walks back to the counter to greet the customer.

The man is short and has a little round face. He looks extraordinarily nervous, and this catches your attention. Yours and Asra's shop is well known in the city and the townsfolk trust their magicians. You hadn't seen anyone come in here looking so nervous, and maybe even a little embarrassed.

"What can I do for you, sir?" Asra asks charmingly, resuming his position behind the counter. Briefly you let yourself admire how nice he looks, comfortable in his shop and expertise, before turning back to the box you were supposed to be dealing with. Not, however, letting your ears miss the conversation.

"I," the man starts, already fumbling with his words. "I, well look. I need help." He finishes plainly, nervously clutching his shirt between his pudgy hands.

Asra smiles kindly, "many do." He says, tilting his head and examining his new client. "Are you here for a card reading? Need to get some answers?"

The man groans as though he is already exhausted with the conversation. "No, I already know what I need. I have the answers. I've heard about this place. The ways you can help people. I live an hour out of the market and I made this trip just to see you."

"We're flattered, for sure." Asra says calmly, you can hear slight annoyance in his tone from all the ambiguity. The visitor is none the wiser though. "To help you though," Asra continues. "I'll need to know what you need."

"Alright I need a potion," the man finally reveals. "One that will help me... with performance." His cheeks are redder than a bell pepper in the sun.

Asra raises a white eyebrow, "performance? Are you an actor?"

"No!" The man's voice came out in a strangled whisper, obviously trying to keep it down. You roll your eyes, chancing a glance over your shoulder. The shop floor wasn't that big, of course you were going to hear everything.

"No," he said again, this time a little more composed. "What I mean is... my sex life performance." The truth comes out. Your visitor wipes his forehead with a dirty rag from his pocket. "My wife and I well.. we've hit a slump," he explains. "And I've heard of potions that can help with that kind of thing. Stuff that will completely change the game." His eyes are shining now, imaging life post-performance potion.

Asra looks uncertain at best. "I see," he starts, shooting you a glance. "That.. does exists. But it takes awhile to make. And the price isn't cheap either."

You shove the last of the crow feathers into their designated drawer while listening. You have never heard of such a potion, but you were also still learning. Asra sounds a little unsure though.

"Price isn't an issue," the man sounds desperate. "I'll pay anything."

Asra sighs, he feels bad for the man wringing his hands before him, practically crying for a cure. "Alright," he finally concedes. "I'll make it, but you'll have to come back in the morning. This kind of thing takes all evening to brew."

Your customer nods vigorously, "I can wait." He says. "Tomorrow morning, yes! I'll be here!" His excitement apparent, he bows a few times while backing out of the door, tripping over his own feet.

The door closes with a sharp bang and the bell rings furiously. Asra blows air out of his mouth so that itf ruffles the curls between his eyes.

"Well," he says after a moment. "A sex performance enhancing potion was not what I was expecting to make today." He rubs his temples, eyes closed and looking thoughtful.

You grin at him from the shelf as you pick up the empty shipping box and rest it on your hip. "That's quite the name, I've never heard of a potion like that."

Asra laughs and opens his beautiful eyes to look at you. "Yes, you'll have to forgive me for not teaching you that kind of magic, it's not the.. safest." He ends uncertainly. "I don't even know how this guy found out about it. It's not talked about much amongst us magicians.. and it's certainly not a common one."

Immediately more questions than your mouth can keep up with flood your brain. "So how did you find out about it? And why isn't it safe?" You ask the two more important ones, eyes following Asra as he finds a piece of paper and quill to use.

He dips his quill in the register's ink well and starts scratching down what you presumed to be ingredients. "I've been studying magic for years, my love." He says simply, "and before you ask, no I haven't used it on myself." He looks up at you, mischief dancing in his pretty eyes. "I'd like to think my sex game is up to par." He adds innocently, licking his lips seductively when your ears tinge pink.

You brush imaginary dirt off your shirt sleeves and huff. "I suppose it's pretty good." You mumble. It almost feels like a lie to just describe it as "pretty good" but Asra doesn't need you to stroke his ego right now. You do that enough falling to pieces beneath him every night.

Asra is well aware of your attempt to keep him humble and laughs lightly. "And to answer your other question," he says, turning back to his ingredient list, "messing with ones body like this can be dangerous. You have to be very precise."

You nod as he explains, it makes sense.

Potions are always brewed in pots over a magic fire so you put yourself to work, removing a medium sized iron pot from a hook on the wall and carrying it to a fire stand. Asra is busy himself, opening various drawers and adding seemingly random ingredients to a basket he has looped over his arm. Iris petals, newt eyeball, and some shimmering gold flakes. You smile watching him, your gorgeous magician; smart and able.

In no time at all Asra has a bubbling pot of sweet smelling liquid stirring before him. You stand beside him, observing curiously.

"Why are you wearing gloves?" You ask, taking note of the large leather gloves that clad all the way up your lover's forearm.

Asra continues to stir and looks over at you, happy to hear your eagerness to learn. "I can't risk even a drop of this touching my skin. It's so strong, and will immediately absorb into anyone's skin, leaving them..." He shakes his head and trails off, amused. "That's why it has to brew so long, to burn off some of the potency."

Your mouth opens in amazement, taken aback by the idea. This is the real deal you decide, stepping back a couple inches in precaution. After watching the potion bubble for a couple more minutes you stretch and grab the watering can sitting by the floor of the door.

"I'm going to water the plants," you inform Asra, waving your hand briefly until the can is full of cool, crisp water. Gods knows there are at least three dozen inside and outside of the shop.

Asra is humming in confirmation that he heard you as you open the shop door to the plants hanging outside. You don't get very far before you're blindsided by a streak of purple darting through your legs.

Escape!

"Faust?!" You yelp, dancing around the squirming snake as she winds her way under and into the open shop. A loud, booming bark makes you jump again. This time a large hound dog is rounding the tight corner from the side street and barreling full speed towards you.

All hell breaks loose. The water can is up in the air, crashing wildly into the side of the building. You are thrown back onto the dusty floor and a mass of fur and teeth race past you, paying no mind to your yelling.

Help!

Faust is racing around the floor, narrowly avoiding the jaws of the angry dog she seemed to have aggravated. There's a large crash from inside and you cringe, hearing bottles break and wood crunch. You look back, scared at what you might find.

The shop is a disaster, papers strewn, vials broken, and potion pot toppled. Asra is groaning on the floor, obviously doing no better than the rest. You glance at him worriedly, taking quick notice of the potion he had been making spilled everywhere, even on him.

You snap your fingers and the dog's growl, who was cornering Faust by the bookshelf, turns into a whimper as you lift him up with your magic. "I'm sorry pooch," you sigh, "but we can't have you eating our friend." With a wave of your wrist the hound is out the door and down the street in an instant. The hinges creak and bell rings as the door is once again closed to outside.

Thank you!

Faust wriggles happily, red eyes glowing in relief. You guess she got up to some trouble with the local fauna. She slithers up the stairs quickly, leaving you to look around at the ruined shop.

"Ah, fuck," Asra's words cut through your thoughts like a knife. He's laying flat on the floor, chest heaving as though he just ran a marathon. Sweat glistens on his tan skin, covering him from head to toe.

You step over the broken bottles and kneel at his side. "My love?" You ask, unsure of what to do. It was obvious what had happened, it didn't take an expert. The potion that was supposed to be for your customer was now soaked into Asra's glowing skin.

Asra opens his eyes and you swallow hard. You know that look, and it nearly makes you start trembling where you sit. Lust is prevalent, clouding Asra's eyes until they're a dark amethyst color.

"You-" you start to speak but are cut off by Asra sitting up abruptly. His face is close to yours and his breath washes over your lips, hot and wanton. He looks positively desperate, just the sight of you sitting before him doing wonders.

"Please," Asra's voice comes out low and husky, he watches your chest rise and fall quickly as a result. "Can I please have you, right now."

You could almost call him asking like that soft and innocent, if it wasn't for the raw, hungry look he was giving you. His eyes were traveling everywhere across your body, leaving an invisible line that you could almost feel burning into your skin. Your lips parted and you let out a soft gasp, the power that kind of look had over you was astonishing. You shifted your legs under you subtly, feeling the result of the hot atmosphere low in your stomach.

"Tsk, tsk," you had to tease for a moment. "Closing the shop at midday for some fucking?" You reach up and cup Asra's cheek, feigning uncertainty. His skin on your fingertips burns white hot and you have to hide your amazement.

Asra's eyes narrow, he knew you too well. With a quick flick of his wrist you hear the deadbolt on the door slide into place. It's only a second later and both of his hands have found a place on either side of your hips.

"Why do you torment me?" he asks, pulling you close so your legs straddle him. "Can't you see I'm getting enough of that from this damn mistake of a potion?" His words are almost shaky, as though he can barely speak anymore. He presses his hips up to meet yours, and a soft sigh escapes his lips as he finally gets a little friction.

You dig your nails into his shoulders and gasp, the feeling of Asra so obviously in need is enough to make anyone go wild.

You can't resist grinding down lightly and Asra's eyes practically roll back at the sensation. "How can I say no to such a pretty face," you whisper, completely in love with his reaction.

That was enough for Asra and without added words he gathers you up in his strong arms and lifts you both. Your head falls back pleasurably when his lips find your neck. It only takes a few quick steps on his part to bring the two of you into the plush back room.

The purple cushions lining the cozy futon sink in gently as your back hits the mattress. The room has a slight pleasing haze as sandalwood incense burns at the table. The smell washes over your senses and a new wave of sensuality comes over the room.

Asra's hands hold you firmly as his lips continue to press lovingly into your skin. He hovers over you, one leg pressed between your legs, causing your hips to involuntarily move along his thigh.

"I need you out of these clothes," Asra groans, lips being stopped at your chest where your shirt has suddenly become a hindrance. He's already tugging at the hem, untucking the loose fabric from your waistband. You raise yourself to your elbows and help him pull the shirt over your head. At once it is thrown over Asra's shoulder and his eyes are set on your bare skin, drinking in the sight of his lover.

You smile at his admiration and lay back again, stretching your arms above your head and arching your back. You feel his hands on your stomach, traveling up to rest on your breasts. Your skin prickles with desire, flesh lighting on fire from his ministrations.

"How did I get so lucky," he breathes out, looking down at you with a look filled with love and passion. He rests the tips of his fingers on your nipples and swirls them lightly, leaving you to twist in torturous pleasure beneath his touch. "Everything about you is beautiful." Asra continues to flatter, lowering his head so his curls tickle your stomach. He licks a long line from the dip of your hip up to the valley between your breasts.

After a few moments of tasting your supple skin he moves his hands to the top of your skirt and tugs. You lift your hips in compliance and the fabric slides down your legs easily. Asra licks his lips as your body is finally fully presented to him.

"I could feast on you," he announces, voice lowered with need. "And I wouldn't go hungry in a lifetime." These words he whispers into your inner thigh, they tickle your skin softly.

You watch with bated breath as the man before you adores his lover. It's hard to keep your moans controlled as you feel his sinfully good tongue lick you in a way that can only be described as ecstasy.

Asra shifts into a more comfortable position, lying on his stomach and he brings your legs to lay comfortably over his shoulders. You shudder as you feel his hot breath flutter over your dripping slit. He doesn't waste anymore time and lowers his face to enjoy you.

Your thighs squeeze his head lightly as your body arches in response. Asra is devouring you as though you were a feast and it was the only meal he is to have in a lifetime. He grips your legs tightly to keep you from moving and covers your slit with his mouth, sucking for a moment on the tight nub at the top. He groans happily into your skin before moving down to lick your hole.

"Oh please, yes," you run your trembling hand through his hair and raise your hips up to meet his greedy mouth. He laps short, quick strokes first, stimulating you into madness.

After a moment he slows his tongue down to swirl languidly, looking up at you. You make eye contact and groan at the erotic scene of him eating you out. "That mouth of yours is too skilled for its own good," you whisper, fingers digging into his scalp, trying desperately to savor every swipe of his tongue.

Asra smiles against your folds. "I live to make you feel good, my dear." He says, pausing a moment. "You intoxicate me. Your smell, your taste. I couldn't get enough even if I had all the time in the world." He presses his lips on each one of your thighs with hot, open mouth kisses.

You blush at his words, feeling amazing under his praise. "Come here," you command softly, pulling on Asra's hair lightly to guide him back up your body. He kisses every inch of skin he passes before finally reaching your lips.

"Mm," he hums, taking your face in his hands. "But these lips, are like the finest honey in Vesuvia." He lifts your head so your mouths meet. It's a hot and feverish kiss, full of staggering amounts of love.

You press your body into his and relish in the feeling of kissing Asra. Your mouths are opened to one another and your tongues meet in fiery unison. While you enjoy the kiss you allow your hands to roam. Your fingers find his shirt buttons and you start to undo them as best you can, only a little distracted. It takes just a minute and you sigh happily into his mouth when you finally remove the annoying clothing.

You part a moment to admire the divinity of his body; prostrated before you. He was calling himself the lucky one, but you could probably make a pretty good argument for it being the other way around. He looked absolutely glorious in the hazy glow of the room.

As you reach for the waistband of his pants and rest your fingers playfully on the skin above it Asra breaks out in goosebumps at the fluttering feel of your touch.

"Ah," he breaths out, raising himself to his knees and closing his eyes. Clearly, he's enjoying the attention finally being on him.

"You are the one with the potion affecting them." You say, drawing a line from one hip to another. "It'd almost be criminal to ignore you for any longer." Your eyes fall to the bulge straining under Asra's pants, just begging to be free. A smile plays across your lips as his breaths quickens significantly.

"I.. wouldn't complain." He finally manages to say in a strained tone.

You smile, maybe a little too satisfied, and hook your fingers under the band. "I know." You chuckle, pulling. The trousers catch a moment on Asra's hardened length before slipping down to his knees. You take time to admire the sight before you, licking your lips. Asra is panting slightly, looking down at you lustfully as your eyes graze over him.

He grabs your head on either side and looks into your eyes. "Please," is all he can croak out.

You swallow thickly and you feel yourself dampen even more at his begging words. “I’d like nothing more" you say; need dripping heavily from your words. You lean forward and kiss the tip of his leaking slit lightly. Asra's body shivers with pleasure when your soft lips meet his aching shaft.

You take a breath before closing your mouth around his tip. Your cheeks hollow and you suck in deeply, enjoying the small sounds of pleasure emitting from Asra's lips. He groans even deeper as you finally swallow down his whole length, tip sliding down the back of your throat.

"Ah fuck, baby," he stutters through gritted teeth, fingers threading through your hair. He thrusts into your mouth without hesitation, reveling in the way you feel around him. The pace is fast and vicious, leaving no time for extra room for breathing.

You choke back your gasps and feel the involuntary tears prick at the corners or your eyes. Your hands fall to your sides as you let Asra use your mouth how he pleased. Licentious noises ring around the room as he sinks his member into your mouth relentlessly, moaning at each stroke and the salacious feelings that come over him.

His grip tightens in your hair as he pounds into your face. You open your mouth as widely as you can and take him in, ignoring the slight pain of labored breathing. The feeling of being used so mercilessly is intoxicating, and you close your eyes, enjoying the pleasure that overtakes you.

With a loud pop he pulls out of your drooling mouth, leaving you to be the one groaning in disappointment.

"I'm sorry love," he huffs dazedly, need heavy on his features. "But if I don't stop this now I'm cumming in your mouth."

"That doesn't sound so bad," you complain, sticking your tongue out so Asra can view how much you want it. His eyes darken considerably and he looks ready to break.

He takes a breath in sharply, steadying himself before holding your face gently in his hand. "As much as I want you fuck your face, that pussy of yours I know is dripping for me and I have to comply." He chuckles, running his thumb along your lip.

You whimper at his words, practically climaxing at the suggestion. You meet his eyes in a needy manner and nod. "Oh, Asra," you start, already seeing excitement flit across his face at the mention of his name. "I want you more than I can even describe to you."

To this Asra inhales sharply, thumb still hooked in your mouth. "Tell me how you want me," he says, barely able to contain his own desire.

"I want you to fuck me from behind," you begin, knowing exactly how to please his ears. "I'm going to cry and moan, and beg you for relief but you will know better." His eyes widen in ecstasy but you continue anyway. "I want you to give everything you can to me, without holding back."

Asra seems to snap right in front of you. His features immediately seem to plead for consolation. "You'll get what you ask for." He growls, fingers tightening in your mouth. You lick his thumb seductively and the action throws him over the edge.

Asra's hands fly to your waist and hold you firmly, you're flipped over; ass to the heavens greeting him. He swallows at the sight and digs both palms into the flesh, enjoying the feeling immensely. "So needy and ready for me," he groans, finger finding your entrance and slipping in easily. You gulp at the warmth of having fingers enter you. Asra is unrelenting and curls them cruelly against your walls.

"Just fuck me already!" You cry, unable to hide your desires anymore. You hear Asra laugh behind you, yet despite this you know he is dying to sink himself into you.

"Alright, alright." He concedes, taking your hips in his hands. "If you insist."

You feel his tip slide against your slit and shudder, craving the feeling of him inside you. It doesn't take more than a moment before you feel him start to enter you. You lay your head down, turning your face so you can watch Asra take you from behind.

His lips are parted in a silent moan as he relishes in the feeling of your walls around him. You sigh softly as he fully sheaths himself in you, a small tremor passing over your body from the pleasure. One moment, two moments pass as you both bask in the feeling of being connected.

"Give me your hands," he commands, slowly sliding in and out of you, giving no care to his agonizingly slow pace. Soft gasps are falling from your lips as you try to register his request.

Carefully, you cross your arms behind your back. It's no use to keep the blush at bay as you take in the dirty scene. Your face is pressed to the pillows, unable to move much as Asra takes your wrists and pins them to your back. Your ass is raised in the air to meet his rhythmic thrusting.

Asra grips one of your thighs with a free hand and quickens the pace a little. Your eyes shut tightly as your body responds. You can feel his tip hit deep inside of you with each snap of his hips. It's unrelenting and you have to catch yourself from begging for more.

You feel the fingers around your wrist tighten a bit as Asra's breathing speeds up behind you. You know that he's set on giving you as much painfully slow torture as he can manage himself, but you also know that potion is working against him. There's nothing he wants more than to let go and pound you into the mattress.

"Baby," you choke out, words bouncing along with your bodies. "I know you want to fuck me so good right now." Your voice is deep with seduction. "Please just fill me up like I know you want to." You finish your plea, watching his face with satisfaction. His eyes are darkened with desire. He takes just a few more strokes before slowly to a stop inside you.

"You asked for it," he warns. He only takes a moment to let go of your wrists and flips your body so you're facing him. He cages you in on either side and licks his lips as he stares into your eyes. His hungry mouth meets yours in a kiss full of fire. You can melt into it for only a second before you feel him grab your hips and pull you flush against him; Your cries drowned by his lips as he sets an erratic pace, skin meeting with loud slaps.

"Fucking hell," he groans, still kissing you between words. "You feel like heaven on earth. You're so hot, and I can feel your insides squeezing me." He explains, hot breath falling over your face. Your cheeks burn at his descriptions.

You loop your arms around his neck and press your chest into his. Your skin meets, shining with sweat and burning from love. Asra presses back, savoring the feeling of your nipples brushing against his.

You start to feel that familiar blossom of unreleased pleasure pool in your lower stomach. Asra's shaft is hitting you just right, sending jolts of satisfaction right to your core.

"Oh-" you stop and whine pleasantly when he shifts angles. "Fuck. Please yes, don't stop!" Your arms drop and nails dip into his biceps and you grit your teeth from the hot delight searing through your body.

"I couldn't even If i wanted to," Asra answers, words strained as his grasp on himself starts to crumble. His breath is leaving his lips in short pants now and you can almost see the resolve to hold on slip away before your eyes.

He falls into you, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist and thrusts into you with all of the strength he can muster. You bury your face in his neck and take hold of his hair. You can feel Asra's body shuddering to not let go.

You bring your lips to his ear and bite his lobe. "Won't you come for me sweetheart? Please empty yourself in me." You whisper.

Asra takes in a sharp breath and you hear him choke at your words. They were enough to push him over the edge and he rams into you with a low, strangled cry.

Your head falls back and your mouth opens in a silent scream as Asra lets himself go in you. Your legs shake violently of their own accord as you feel your orgasm wash over you, leaving your body in euphoric fire.

Asra's lips immediately find yours as you ride out your orgasms together. You kiss him passionately, all of your senses in overdrive. His kisses are soft, and sweet, a clear declaration of his love. Happiness rushes in like a flood as you enjoy the afterglow. After a minute Asra removes himself from you and joins you in laying down, sides still heaving from the activities.

"My dear, how I love you." He says with a smile, running his fingers in slow, soft circles on your stomach.

You turn on your side and look into his eyes. He looked content, and his cheeks were dimpled from his growing grin.

"I love you too," you return, hand falling into his. His skin was still warm. The two of you lay there for a while, out of breath and simply enjoying the presence of one another.

Eventually, Asra sits up and looks down at you with humor in his eyes. "Well, I think I can tell our buyer that we did an extensive review of his product and it does, in fact, work."

Your face breaks into a smile and you laugh at Asra's words. "Oh goodie, I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear all about it."

[comicaurora]

Abt the How To Dynamic Paneling, something that also helps is by reading a lot of different comics and seeing how those artists do their layouts and working out their how and whys. Personally I've been rereading (for like the 3rd time after following it since first release lol) Spy x Family and while no spoilers the series is very much a balance between comedy and action, and while no spoilers there's really interesting panels in some of those latter scenes where weapons will break OVER the panel borders to emphasize its power. It's really cool but it's also a function of the particular tone and style of the comic; the comedy and lower stakes moments are often softer with less concrete framing, and I think on some level working out how the paneling happens is something that depends on the actual artist style and medium over most things. Namesake also has some gorgeous layouts

Spy X Family is both very cute and very good at communicating clear action without overloading on speed lines! It also has to juggle the complexities of having a psychic protagonist and making a clear distinction between what she's telepathically sensing vs what's she's thinking on her own vs what people around her are saying vs non-diegetic narration. It also plays with panel borders - in this page from chapter 3 (I'm only gonna use examples for chapter 3 to avoid spoilers) the figures in the second panel fully overlap the first panel, unrestrained by the borders. The third panel, however, fully encloses the figures, speech bubbles and narration box.

They do this with word bubbles a lot, producing an effect similar to how a cut to a wide or environmental shot would work in TV. It implies that the dialogue plays over the unrelated background shot or scene. The narration is also helpfully contained in a different-shaped hard-edged rectangular box, quite distinct from any dialogue or thought bubbles, helping us recognize instinctively that while Anya can hear anything and everything in the rounded bubbles, the narration is firmly separated from in-universe speech and thought.

In this one, the speech bubbles for the loud, angry shouting crowd break the panel borders, signifying how they're overwhelming Anya, in contrast to the other, softer narration and dialogue which is contained within the panel borders.

And this chapter also has an action-heavy page that skews the panel borders to follow the direction of movement, drawing the eye down to the center of the motion! The speed lines and sound effect follow the same perspective rules and don't obscure the background figures. The two panels on the left side contrast the sudden action and extreme movement by showing two timeless or slow-motion moments, signified by the particles (and teeth) hanging suspended in the air - the absence of speed lines indicates to us that these moments are single, frozen vignettes. We know exactly what this scene would look and feel like when animated.

Characters will often overlap panels and borders to signify that they're reacting to or thinking about something in that panel. It's a very efficient way of making the scene feel a little timeless and floaty, since it no longer signifies a strict linear progression of events.

This comic is doing a lot of interesting things with page layouts! I definitely recommend checking it out with an eye for what stylistic rules it follows, what rules it breaks, when it breaks them and why.

Also just read more comics in general. Can't stress that enough. It's win-win.

[sleepdepravity]

When it comes to comparing mediums, I don’t think it’s about being “as good,” or “better at” or anything like that. There are different barriers and stuff, that each type of media overcomes in different ways. Like is literature better at conveying character’s emotions than film? Well, maybe they are able to do it differently that may feel easier—you can write out what they’re feeling, whether saying it straight up or sort of writing it obliquely. But obviously, film can convey it too, it just expresses it in a different manner.

It’s also the case of each one having to focus on different aspects of specific…I guess, methods of construction. If we go to visual novels, what is important there? You want to write dialogue that fits in the text box of your UI. It would be better if each specific dialogue box ended in a sentence and not in the middle of a sentence. There’s also the timing of the text, sound effects, is it voiced or not, how much text—then things that aren’t related to dialogue, but still affect it anyways, the visuals, the background, the character portraits, all that stuff.

Can literature do anything the visual novel does? Can it have sound effects, or a UI, or whatever? No, but that doesn’t matter because that’s not what we expect from it. It would be silly to compare them. Saying that the visual novel is better at sound effects than literature would be like saying that a cat is better at jumping than a turtle. It’s true, but it’s a meaningless comparison. Turtles don’t jump! They aren’t built for it and their lives don’t really revolve around it. In the same way, literature isn’t built for sound effects. (Unless you count those cardboard books that had the buttons and stuff to make sounds I guess.) Sound effects are simply not a concern.

There are things that you could consider, like, a parallel I guess. The timing of the text for a visual novel is a parallel to the pacing in literature. Those are similar concerns, but they aren’t necessarily tackled in the same way. Visual novels would consider the speed in which the text appears, or maybe the intervals between dialogue boxes. The character count in each dialogue box too. Literature, it’s more about dialogue tags, or how you break up the dialogue and the action. Punctuation. What the whole thing looks like on a page.

It’s true that literature doesn’t have the flexibility that visual mediums have. And it’s fair to say that, yknow, the way literature tackles conversation maybe isn’t satisfying for everyone. And I think it’s true that writers can find it more difficult, maybe, to successfully pull off that sort of thing. But it’s doable. (I’d say it’s particularly doable in Japanese, where there’s so many ways you can have a person talk that makes them distinguishable through dialogue alone. Things that get lost in translation when you go to English.)

I know I was the one complaining about making myself do a ten-person conversation, but I had the tools. And I’ve been told in the past that one of my major strength is dialogue. I think I pulled it off alright, considering.

Think about the different ways people can talk. (In the omake, I had Konya almost always have something like “dude” or “man” in his dialogue. And then Go often cursed in hers.)

Think about the visual tics that different people can have. (Yoshinaga at two points, smacks people on the arm. One of them, she smacks someone on the arm and calls them “Mako-chi.” And then later on, she doesn’t smack someone, but she says “Setsu-chi.” And I didn’t put a dialogue tag for the last one, which was admittedly a risk, but I hoped that it was enough of a link to let people figure out who was talking.)

Think about the context and the surrounding and the atmosphere. (“Maybe you should’ve asked Eguchi out before he started night school, then” could come off in different ways, but because of the context, I felt comfortable not describing the tone because I figured people would realize it was something more laid back and less antagonistic, for example. And, of course, there’s “context” in the sense of “who has been talking in the conversation up to this point and what have they been saying?”)

When you have all that, then you’re able to think about the pacing too. You can relax a little on feeling like you HAVE to tell the reader who’s who using a dialogue tag, which is something that can really trip up your pacing and the timing of the conversation. For example:

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” Konya said. “He called you a ‘gaming legend.’ What’s up with that?”

“No more questions.”

has a different feel from:

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” Konya said. “He called you a ‘gaming legend.’ What’s up with that?”

“No more questions,” Reigen replied.

And also, having a sense of where to place dialogue tags has an effect too:

“Oh yeah, that’s right. He called you a ‘gaming legend.’ What’s up with that?” Konya asked.

“No more questions.”

At least, it does to me. Anyways, I guess that’s the end of the accidental seminar i did. Bye.

Like. I really did just sit down and go like, “you know what, I think I will make up eight whole characters and then use them to write a 2.6k word ten-person conversation.” Why did I do that? Why.

[buckybleu]

❣︎ before paris ❣︎

pairing: artist(painter)!Shangqi/Shang-Chi x fem!reader

summary: A train ride to Paris leaves a painter to meet his muse.

warnings: fluff; just a good ol' fashion love story blooming

A/N: Sorry it's been awhile since I've written or posted anything. But we're back and this time for @tom-whore-dleston 500 followers writing challenge (congrats again babe 💖). It is inspired by the opening scenes of "Before Sunrise", one my favorite romance movie (along with the rest of the Before trilogy). I hope you enjoy, happy reading! 🎨

**Please do check out the rest of her 500 followers writing challenge masterlist, so many other amazing stories have also been submitted.

word count: 1.9k

reblogs/likes/comments are greatly appreciated! ❤️

The French countryside passes you like a blurry dream, one you wish you could recall every detail to daydream the coming night. The window creaks as the train speeds across the tracks; the shaking and rumbling nearly lull you to sleep, the words inked in the book in front of you slowly forgotten. Aside from the soft vibrations of the train, loud voices of a couple seated in the booth beside you, keep you awake. A couple no older than 45, quarrel with one another. Your three years of high school French picks up bits and pieces of their argument.

Something about missing the correct stop and airplane tickets. Your body jumps when the woman bolts from her seat and starts towards the next carriage, her husband following quickly behind. Their scene doesn’t go unnoticed, their harsh tones definitely disrupting other passengers. Your pointer finger plays with the corner of the page, eyes focused on the city coming into view, mesmerized by its beauty.

“Je suis désolé de vous déranger. Puis-je avoir ce siège?” You turn your head, only be met with warm, honey eyes. A man with dark fluffy hair gives you a gentle smile. He’s dressed in a white shirt and onyx pants speckled with colorful paint, an olive blouson jacket tied around his waist. He has a sketchbook tucked under his arm while a distressed, caramel leather satchel sits on top of his shoulder.

You offer him an apologetic smile, “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t speak french.”

“Sorry, uhm. Is it okay for me to sit here? A couple was arguing in the other carriage and I couldn’t focus.”

“Of course, please.” You move your bag onto the floor by your feet, as the stranger settles in beside you. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

“I’m Shangqi, nice to meet you.” When you shake his hand, you notice the graphite staining knuckles and side of his palm. “So, where are you heading?”

“Not sure if I’m being honest. I might stay in Paris for a bit. Maybe take a train to Brussels, possibly Luxembourg too.” You recline into your seat and turn towards Shangqi, “And you?”

There’s a strange magnetic pull towards you that Shangqi can’t put his finger on. Maybe it’s the way how freely you answered him; no schedule or agenda to dictate your travel, no worries to anchor you down. How effortlessly beautiful you appear in a soft periwinkle sweater and denim skirt. If he didn’t know any better, you were an angel sent by the heavens to grace the earth.

“Paris.” It’s the only answer he’s able to give, still beguiled by you. He shakes himself from your trance when you ask him what’s his plan there. “I’m a painter. My work is being showcased at an art gallery.”

“You must be a big-time artist if you have a whole art gallery dedicated to your work.” Your tone isn’t condescending but genuine and intriguing.

“I mean, I wouldn’t say anything big. Just a painter.” Heat dusts across Shangqi’s cheeks, unable to fully accept your compliment.

You offer him a reassuring smile, “Painters are artists, no? Artists in their own unique creativity and medium. I think you’re being too humble. I’m positive whatever is being showcased, is amazing.”

“You seem so sure for someone who’s never seen any of my work.” Shangqi’s laugh is light and music to your ears. It’s a sound that you wished you could hear everyday for the rest of your life. Every morning when you wake up and every night before you go to sleep.

“Show me then.”

○•*•○※○•*•○※○•*•○※○

For the remainder of the train ride, Shangqi shows you every piece in his sketchbook, photos of his previous gallery in San Francisco and New York, and enthusiastically retells the story of how he accidentally spilled a gallon of neon pink paint on best friend. There’s no awkward pause, just laughter and banter between one another. For two people who have only known each other for 25 minutes, they gazed and conversed like they’ve known each other for 25 years. Old pals catching up.

“Alright, I feel like we’ve talked enough about me. Let’s talk about you” Shangqi proposes. You and Shangqi had moved the conversation to the dining car, an espresso sitting in front of the both of you. The dining car is a bit more lively; other passengers chat while sipping on tea or munch on pastries and sandwiches.

You set down your cup and rest your chin on the palm of your hand, “What do you want to know?”

“Anything.” Shangqi doesn’t care what you give him, as long as it's something. “Maybe why Paris?”

“What do you mean?” You sit forward, curious about how he’ll answer.

Shangqi clears his throat and leans closer to you, his voice a bit quiet. “You said you’re staying in Paris. What’s in Paris for you?” His heart starts to flutter when a smile spreads across your lips.

“A lot of things are in Paris, Shangqi.” Your eyes now focus on the espresso, finger moving the spoon in circles. “I’m not sure what’s there or what I’m looking for. But what I do know is that I’m glad to be there,” You softly chuckle when you look up and see Shangqi’s peculiar expression.

“I’m glad you’re here too.” Shangqi doesn’t register what he’s said until you let out an airy laughter. “I-I mean uhm, if you didn’t come to Paris I wouldn’t have met you here. The train ride probably would’ve been much more boring.”

“Maybe, but you’d probably be occupied with your sketches and what not.” For the first time during your conversation, there’s a small pause. Your gaze is set on the falling sun outside your window. Shangqi takes this moment to take in how hues of orange and pink rest on your face, light illuminating the high points of your face. Your eyes sparkle like diamonds, expression angelic.

You turn your gaze back to Shangqi, a hopeful diction plays in your voice. “I think I’m in Paris to find beauty.”

“Beauty?” Shangqi quizzically asks.

“Within myself, that is.” There’s something sad in your eyes, but your smile hides it. “C’mon, we only have an hour left before we get to Paris. Let’s go relax a bit.” You leave no room for Shangqi to argue as you’re already halfway down the aisle.

○•*•○※○•*•○※○•*•○※○

Shangqi never figured out what you meant by beauty. Beauty within myself, you said. What did you mean by that? He came to the conclusion you’re beautiful inside and out based on the conversation alone. Genuine. Intelligent. Kind. Adventurous. Empathetic. The list goes on. Shangqi has never met anyone like you. One in a million.

Soft snores escape from you, lips slightly parted. The bit of sun emitted a heavenly glow as your head rested against the windows. The sight of you, feet tucked under and his jacket draped across your body, was something Shangqi didn’t know if he'd get another glimpse. Maybe in another lifetime, but here right now, Shangqi wanted to eternalize it.

Shangqi flips open to a clean, empty page in his sketchbook. The moment his pencil touches the paper, Shangqi’s creativity binds to your beauty. He meticulously outlines the structure of your body, slowly adding details to match the alluring curves and dips of you. The mesmerizing attraction of you fuels his mind and hands, drowning all his thoughts and artistry onto the paper. He’s not sure how long ago he finished the portrait, but there’s an eternal happiness Shangqi feels. The beauty he once thought to slip through his fingers, now immortalized by graphite. Pleased with his portrait, Shangqi slips his sketchbook into his satchel. Stealing one more uninterrupted moment, he watches the slow rise and fall of your body.

“Mesdames, messieurs, dans quelques instants notre TGV desservira la gare du Nord. Une minute d’arrêt. Assurez-vous de ne rien avoir oublié.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, in a few minutes our TGV will enter Nord station. One minute stop. Make sure you don’t forget anything.”

The train announcement stirs you awake, rubbing the bits of sleep away. You turn to Shangqi, giving him a sweet smile. “Thank you for the jacket. You didn’t have to.” You hesitantly peel the jacket off, already missing it’s warmth and lingering smell of his bergamot and lemon cologne. “Are we almost there?”

“Yea. Train announcer said we’ll be there in a few minutes. We should probably start packing up” he says.

It’s a comfortable silence as you guys pack, while stealing glances at one another. You want to ask more, wanting to find out where Shangqi’s staying and seeing if he’s up for dinner. But before you could say a word, the announcer notifies you’ve arrived at the station. Passengers swiftly unboard, eagerly ready to go wherever they need to be. You and Shangqi, however, draw out time, holding onto every second left you have with one another.

“So where are you heading to now that you’re in Paris?” Shangqi asks.

“I’m staying with my friend, Yelena. She should be here soon.” You glance around the busy station, hoping Yelena isn’t here yet. You turn back to Shangqi, “Are you meeting up with anyone? Or heading off right away?” There’s a bit of hope in your voice, hope that Shangqi would stay a little longer.

“Yea, I gotta get going. I need to meet up with the gallery director and make sure everything is good to go. But you-” Shangqi is cut off when Yelena runs towards you and wraps her arms around your shoulders.

“Yelena! Hey!” You giggle when she presses a kiss to your cheek. “I’ll be right out, just saying by to a friend”

“Alright, but hurry and wrap it up. Nat and Clint are hungry and grumpy.” Yelena grabs your bags, not before giving Shangqi a deathly stare.

“Is she always that uh, protective?” Shangqi can still feel Yelena’s eyes burning into the back of his head.

“Only with the ones she loves. Yelena is really delightful once she warms up to you.” You look over Shangqi’s shoulder to see an impatient Natasha tapping her watch. “I have to get going, my friends are waiting on me. I had a lot of fun getting to know you, Shangqi. I wish we had more time together.”

You pull Shangqi into a hug, holding onto him longer than one should. Shangqi presses a soft kiss into your hair. You give Shangqi one last smile before you start your way towards the stairs.

You’re halfway up when Shangqi tugs your hand, “Wait I forgot.” He pulls out a small notebook and pen, frantically scribbling something down. He rips off the paper and hands it to you, “My art gallery show. It’s in two days and I’d love for you to come. If you’re not too busy that is.”

You take the paper, smiling at the scribbled address. You plant a quick kiss close to his mouth and smile, “I’ll be there. See you soon Picasso.”

Shangqi’s feet are planted firmly on the staircase, unwilling to move as passerbys enter and leave the station. The soft touch of your lips and its warmth linger on his skin the remainder of the night. There is an unwavering spell you’ve already cast on him and you don’t even know.

You are his muse. And Shangqi will spend a lifetime painting you in color.

○•*•○※○•*•○※○•*•○※○

all errors and mistakes are mine!

main masterlist // Xu Shangqi/Shang-Chi masterlist

[droolingoverfanfics]

Wedding Night

> Alice in Borderland <

Requested by: @praiapersephone

Hi! Can I request an imagine where Chishiya and the female reader is on their first wedding night. Like it will be their first time to do it as a couple coz we know that Chishiya lacks sex drive (I mean you know he rarely show emotions so yeah he must be uninterested being intimate) and the reader is too shy to initiate something on Chishiya. Thank youuuu!

A/N: Sure thing! Sorry it took me so long. I got carried away with their foreplay..so yeah. It is longer than expected. I do hope you enjoy it, though!

Pairing: Chishiya x Reader

Genre: Smut, Fluff

Wordcount: ~2.1k

Warnings: Oral Sex, Dom/Sub, Rough Sex, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Finger Fucking, Swearing, Bad Language, Foreplay

It is late at night when you and your newly wed husband enter your shared flat. You step out of your medium high heeled shoes and sigh with relieve, what a pain it was to wear them during the ceremony, but they suit your wedding dress perfectly. You turn to your husband, but he is already in the bedroom, getting rid of his suit and tie, stripping down so that only his boxers are left and sits down on the bed. You blush at this sight, it is not like you have not seen him like this before, but this is the first time seeing him like this as his wife.

Unsure of what to do next, you slowly move into the bedroom too, around to your bed and bend down to the small lamp on your night stand, to bring some light into the dark room. As soon as the bulb lights up, you can see Chishiya staring at you. “Is something wrong?”, he asks with the same tone he always uses, it sounds so calculating and monotone. It makes you even wonder why he lays there in his boxers only, he must be up to something.

“Could you..help me get out of this dress and corset that is underneath? It is hard to untangle alone”, you ask timidly, while not looking at him directly and biting your lip. I could easily do it alone, but I want him to touch me, you think to yourself, in hopes he does not realize that the dress is that easy to open. “Turn around”, he orders you and you quickly obey, letting out a breathe you didn't realize you held in. You get comfortable on the edge of the bed and wait, until he starts working on your dress. You can feel his fingers grazing your soft skin occasionally, which sends shivers down your spine and you try your best to suppress sighing with how good the close contact feels.

You feel the dress and corset loosen more and more, until they hang loosely around your frame, exposing more of your delicate skin. “Th-thank you..”, you mumble and get up, pressing the fabric against you, making your way over to your bathroom, but you stop as soon as you hear his voice. “What are you doing?”, he wants to know, but simultaneously sounds not much interested in your actions.  You turn around and stare at the ground. “I..uh wanted to get changed..into something more..uh comfortable”, you explain while stuttering. “In the bathroom?”, Chishiya continues to question you. You nod, “Yeah, I always changed there.”

He moves to sit on the edge of the bed and looks at you, a smirk plastering his face. “I want you to change in front of me, no, to strip in front of me. I want to see this new lace underwear you bought for our wedding night”, he requests.

You just stand there, staring at him in shock. You didn't even tell him you bought new underwear, you kept it a secret, hiding them underneath everything else and immediately throwing away the receipt after buying them. But now is the moment you were waiting for. Your wedding night. Your first time with Chishiya. You take a deep breath and let go of your dress, letting it slide down to the ground, followed by your corset. You carefully step out of it and make your way over to where your husband sits, now only dressed in your white lace underwear.

Chishiya just looks you up and down, without saying a word. After a while you get nervous and start playing with your fingers, not daring to look at him any further. When he finally breaks the silence, he pulls you down to him and whispers in your ear, “You look good, kitten.”

You find yourself sitting on his lap, wrapping your arms and legs around him and giving yourself fully into him. His words alone send shivers down your spine right to your most sensitive part between your legs, you feel yourself starting to get wet within seconds. Chishiya places soft kisses on your neck, biting and sucking on it occasionally, leaving his mark, until he hits that soft spot which earns him a moan from you.

You can feel his erection grow beneath you and instinctively start to grind your hips against him, making him grunt. You can feel how he grabs your ass and moves the both of you from your sitting position to a laying position, you on top of him, which makes his erection more prominent to you. The next second you can feel his lips press against yours, kissing you passionately while at the same time unclasping your bra and sliding it off your arms, then throwing it away.

You feel his tongue brushing your lips and open your mouth a little for him, giving him way to fight with your tongue over dominance. During your make out session you continue to grind against his erection, which makes you moan because of all the new sensations you can feel throughout your whole body. Encouraged, you break away and start kissing down his neck to his chest and grab the hem of his boxers, crawling between his legs in the process. You look up at Chishiya, waiting for some sort of reaction.

He looks at you, anticipation glistening in his eyes, ready for whatever you are planing. You really have no idea what you are doing, so you hope that he will guide you, but it does not look like it. You slowly drag his boxers down and finally free his already with pre-cum leaking dick. You gulp at the sheer sight of his size and toss his boxers somewhere out of sight. Careful not to hurt him, you wrap a hand around his erection and give it a gentle stroke, which makes your husband groan in pleasure. You add your other hand start pumping his cock with both hands, varying in speed and pressure, to see what pleasures Chishiya the most.

You soon find a rhythm that he seems to really like and decide to go one step further, taking the tip in between your lips and to gently suck it, occasionally tasting his dick with your tongue and licking it up and down, before you take him more and more into your mouth.

When you finally find your flow, you feel Chishiya's hand on top of your head, stopping you. “You want me to finish off that quickly, without pleasing you first?”, he teasingly asks you, panting slightly because of how good you make him feel. You look up at him, giving him an innocent smile and let go of his cock “Lay down”, he demands and you obey immediately, excited for what is to come next.

His hands travel across your body, caressing your soft skin carefully and teasing you, gently rubbing circles here and there, to test where your most sensitive spots are and you humming in response. After some exploration, Chishiya begins to trail kisses down your neckline, down to your breasts, licking over your nipple, then he abruptly sucks it between his lips and gently bites down on the soft flesh, making you moan, while he cups the other one with his hand and gently massages it.

After a few moments he changes sides and does the same procedure to the other nipple, giving it some attention too. You try to grind your hips against him, but he pushes you roughly down, signalling that he is not done yet. He continues to kiss down your belly until he reaches your lace tanga, hooks his fingers into it and drags it painfully slow down your legs, to your ankles and throws it away, leaving you naked. You feel your cheeks heat up and you try to push your legs together, put he sits in between them and is way stronger than you.

His hand trails upwards, from your feet towards your already wet pussy, you are getting wetter the closer he gets. Your breath hitches, watching Chishiya's hand finally reaching your wet core, slowly dragging his fingers through your folds upwards to your clit, making you moan loudly. “You are already so wet for me”, he says with an amusing tone in his voice, looking down on you.

Chishiya starts rubbing circles on the most sensitive part of your body, watching you squirm and moan under his touch. He then pushes one of his fingers into you, giving you a second to adjust to the new sensation of having something inside you. You are already overwhelmed with emotions and feelings and really enjoyed the feeling of his finger inside you, you couldn't wait to find out how his cock would fill you up.

After a few moments, Chishiya starts pumping his finger into you, while his other hand is massaging your breast, occasionally pinching your nipple, which gains some high pitched moans from you. You try to get a hold by grabbing the bedsheet underneath you, buckling your hips up to meet his movement. He then enters a second finger and adds some pressure on your clit with his thumb. You can already feel a strange feeling build up in your stomach. “Ch-Chishiya-ah! It-it feels so g-good!”, you manage to bring out between moaning. Only seconds later your first climax washes over you, but Chishiya gives you no time to ride it out, his fingers simply penetrate you further.

Your husband smirks, looking down on the moaning mess he created. Your moaning only intensifies. “P-please, Ch-Chishiya! Fuck me, already!”, you beg, panting heavily.

“Only because you asked yo nicely, kitten”, he replies, his fingers retreating from your soaking pussy.

He reaches over you to the night stand and grabs a condom from the drawer, carefully opening it and the rolling it over his dick. Chishiya positions himself in front of your entrance and looks at you. “This might hurt now, like a lot. Just warning you”, he states, before slowly pushing himself inside of you, bit after bit. And it really hurt. You feel tears forming in your eyes and claw at the bedsheets, in order to ease the pain. You try to breathe as normal as possible and adjust to his size and it is really helpful that he waits before he starts moving.

Minutes pass by and you give him a weak nod. He begins rocking his hips at a slow pace at first, so that you can get used to it. After a while you let go of the bedsheets and wrap your arms around Chishiya instead, coming to enjoy the feeling of his cock penetrating you. He sees this as a sign to go faster and increases his speed, gaining a loud moan from you and making him groan in pleasure.

“You are so fucking tight”, he compliments you, pounding harder into you, increasing the volume of your moaning drastically.

He locks eyes with you as he penetrates your inner walls. You try to get a hold on anything, clawing his back, knowing that this is most likely to leave some marks, but you don't care.

You feel the same feeling like before building up in your stomach with each thrust and when he stops to drape your legs over his shoulder and slams into you again, you can not hold back any longer. You scream his name in ecstasy, the knot in your stomach building more and more the harder he pounds into you. You can feel him deep in your pussy, touching all the right spots over and over again, sending you over the edge and seeing stars.

“Ch-Chishiya!”, with one last scream of his name you feel the sensation of your second climax crushing down on you and wave after wave is washing over you, while Chishiya is still thrusting deep into you, but you can feel that he gets more sloppy with each thrust. He pumps himself a few more times into you, before you can feel how his seed is filling the condom and he comes with a loud grunt, head hanging low.

After a few moments he pulls out of you and walks into the bathroom, not coming out for the next few minutes. But when he comes back he has a slightly wet towel with him and begins to clean you up, without saying a word. You just lay there, motionless and let him do.

You watch him as he climbs back to you and lays down, waiting for you to get comfortable and snuggle up to him, until he drapes the blanket over the both of you.

“I love you”, you mumble, as you close your eyes, to get some peaceful sleep after such an eventful day.

“I love you, too”, is all you can faintly hear, as Chishiya starts to rub small circles on your back and you fall asleep.

[lucyintheskywithxanax]

Hidden (nsfw)

Pairing: Wilhemina Venable x Fem Reader

A/N: today is Easter Sunday, so I could not not post smut. Remember to honour the Lord, you sinners. x

Warnings: smut (vibrating panties, nothing too graphic really). As always, English isn’t my first language.

Word count: ≈ 3 000

“Ok ok, let me try it. I’m putting it on medium speed, alright?”

Wilhemina glanced up at you from where she was sitting at the vanity, brushing her hair. “Now don’t get too excited –“she started, but before she had time to finish you pressed a button on the remote control and her whole body tensed.

You bit your lower lip to hold back a smirk as a faint vibrating noise came from where Wilhemina was sitting.

Wilhemina’s eyes widened. “Fuck,” she breathed. She dropped her hairbrush and slammed her hands down on the vanity to support herself as her hips bucked.

“Does it feel good?” you asked, assuming an innocent tone.

Wilhemina’s only answer was a low moan as her hips bucked again; her fingers clenched around the edge of the vanity, her mouth fell open, and before you knew it she gasped, arched her back, and shook.

You stared at her, pleasantly dumbfounded. “Did you come already?”

Wilhemina shot you a look. Another moan escaped her. She unclasped one hand to gesture at her lap, eyes fluttering closed then opening again. Your thumb hovered over the stop button, but you were entirely too fascinated by the sight in front of you to dare press it yet. Wilhemina shot you another look. She made to stand up, but her legs were shaking and she fell back onto her chair. A chuckle escaped you.

“Y/N,” Wilhemina started. She cut herself off with a whimper as her hips jolted violently and her body bent at the waist. She supported herself on the vanity, eyes widening, and wriggled on her chair as if trying to get away from her own center as soft, breathless moans dropped from her lips.

You turned the vibrator off.

“Jeez, Mina,” you laughed. “That was only medium speed.”

She glared at you, eyes very dark and cheeks very pink. With a chuckle you crossed to her, cupped her face and kissed her lips.

It had all started with a joke. You had come upon an ad for vibrating panties on a streaming website, and bought them on a whim. Wilhemina’s expression when she had opened the package was one you’d never forget. Her cheeks and ears had turned pink, and she had shot you such a shocked, outraged look you hadn’t been able to stop laughing.

It had taken a lot of persuading for her to finally agree to wear them. On a work day to boot. You said it made it all the more fun. She scoffed, but didn’t argue.   

You made breakfast as Wilhemina finished brushing and tying up her hair. When you heard the sound of her cane in the kitchen you turned, met her slightly annoyed eyes, and smirked.

She scowled at you as she took the mug of coffee you handed her. “Why do I feel like I’m tied up to a time bomb?” she said in a sharp voice, but you heard the amusement in there, too.

“Relax,” you smiled, folding the dish towel and leaning against the stove. “It’s not going to kill you. I think.”

“Well that’s very reassuring.” She pressed her mug against her lips and gave you a look. “I’m not sure you’re mature enough to be given that much control over me.”

“I guess only time will tell,” you joked. You sat down at the table and lay one hand on her thigh. Gave it a reassuring squeeze, just in case.

When it was time to leave, you sat down on the passenger seat and Wilhemina took the wheel. The first few minutes of the drive were silent. You stared out the window at the pedestrians on their way to work, at the lights being switched on in shop windows, at the city slowly waking up in the bright morning light.

The traffic light in front of you turned orange, and Wilhemina pulled up.

You smirked at her. She turned her head to look at you, narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you dare,” she hissed.

You raised your eyebrows innocently. “What?” you asked. “I’m not doing anything.”

You reached into your pocket and wrapped your fingers around the remote control.

Wilhemina immediately stiffened as you pressed a button. Her grip on the wheel tightened, and she shot you a look, breathed, “Y/N…”

“Come for me before it turns green,” you cooed. “I know you can do it. You’re so sensitive, baby.”

Wilhemina mumbled something under her breath. She made sure to keep her face and posture as straight as possible, but a soft gasp escaped her, and her hips shook slightly when she came.

“See?” you teased. You had to clear your throat. Your voice was a little husky. “I was right.”

The traffic light turned green.

“I’m not sure it was a good idea,” Wilhemina muttered. “You’re having entirely too much fun.”

“Oh, and you’re not?” you laughed, but then your expression became serious again. “We can stop, if you – “

“No.” Wilhemina shook her head, a small smile dancing on her lips. “You’re right. I’m having entirely too much fun as well. Oh for God’s sake, speed up, asshole,” she growled at the car in front of you.

You rolled your eyes at her, chuckled fondly.  

Before getting out of the car, she turned her head and stared at you.

“What?” you asked.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” Her voice was sharp, but you caught a glimpse of the nervousness in her eyes.

You took her hand in yours and gave it a squeeze. “I won’t. And remember, you can take them off anytime you want, ok?”

She nodded, leaned in to plant a kiss on your lips. You smiled giddily at her and gave her hand another squeeze.

You were met by a very grumpy Mutt who looked like he could use a good night’s sleep and three mugs of coffee. Apparently he had run out of coke again. Wilhemina made an annoyed clicking noise with her tongue. She looked down on him and said she would take care of his problem promptly.

You shot her a smile as you parted ways towards your respective offices. Excitement beat in your chest. You reached into your pocket and brushed your fingers over the remote control, just to feel it there. 

It proved incredibly hard to work. Your thoughts kept going back to Wilhemina. The amount of trust and power she was offering you was intoxicating. You wanted to run to her office and kiss her senseless.

You held on till 10:30am. Then you texted Wilhemina to ask her if she was alone. You beamed when she answered in the affirmative, and lost no time to turn on the vibrator.

Ten seconds later, your phone rang.

“Yes, darling?” you grinned as you picked it up.

“What are you doing?”

You bit your lip. “You sound a bit breathless,” you said, assuming a casual tone even though heat was quickly filling your head. “What’s going on?”

“Y/N I swear to God – “Wilhemina cut herself off, sucked a breath in.

“Yes?” you asked, voice a bit too high.

“This was the worst idea ever. You obviously cannot be trusted with this thi –“She let out a short, breathy moan that went right through you and made your whole body tingle with desire.

“Fuck, Y/N.”

“Give me another one, baby. I love hearing you.”

“What if I die because of this? Aren’t you going to mourn me?”

“You’re not going to die,” you chuckled.

Wilhemina sucked in another breath. “Y/N,” she rasped.

Your eyes fluttered closed. “Yes?” you breathed. You summoned her image behind your eyelids: her lips would be slightly parted, her brow pushed up, her eyes closed certainly; a delicate blush covering her cheeks, the soft brushing of her lashes against her skin.

You could hear her somewhat erratic breathing, the soft gasps that fell from her mouth and that made your core throb. You pressed your phone harder against your ear as if that would enable you to hear better.

Wilhemina whimpered your name, and then there was a noise as if she had dropped her phone.

“Mina?” you called. 

“I’m here.”

You shifted in your chair, wincing at the wetness that had gathered between your legs.

“Maybe we should take the rest of the day off,” you breathed. “Tell Jeff and Mutt we’re both sick.”

Wilhemina let out another whimper. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she hissed.

“Spend the rest of the day in bed,” you went on. “Wouldn’t that be nice? Wouldn’t you like that? Making love until we both can’t walk anymore.”

Wilhemina took a sharp intake of breath which made you press your thighs together. You were starting to think that maybe this whole vibrating panties thing was a bad idea. You weren’t sure you’d be able to wait till the end of the day to ravish Wilhemina yourself. Surely you should have thought this through better.

“Y/N,” Wilhemina said quietly, but this time it sounded like a warning. She cleared her throat, and when she spoke again her voice had regained its usual sharpness. “I’ll expect your report on my desk before noon, Miss Y/L/N.” You frowned, confused, but before you had time to speak Wilhemina went on: “Be one minute late and I’ll have you scrub the bathrooms with your tongue and teeth for the next two weeks.” And with that she hung up, but not before you had time to hear a loud chuckle. Jeff’s voice.

You slammed your thumb on the stop button of the remote control and sank back into your seat with a groan. You brought a hand up to your forehead to massage it, took a few deep breaths to help you relax.

About five minutes later, your phone’s screen lit up. A text, from Wilhemina, that only read Thank you. You smiled fondly at the screen, texted her back Of course. Love you.

You didn’t see her or hear of her after that until your lunch break. You two sat side by side as you ate in the cafeteria, your legs touching. You didn’t speak much, but you shot each other knowing glances, and you saw Wilhemina’s lips twitch with a smile more than once.

At 2:00pm you both had to attend a presentation given by Mutt on a new software you didn’t give a damn about. You exchanged a few words with some of your coworkers, then sat down at a table next to Wilhemina.

Mutt had been talking for a little over ten minutes when you started getting bored. You stopped listening to him, and shot a sideways glance at Wilhemina.

A small, wicked smile crept up your lips. With one hand you reached into your pocket, and you rested your other hand on Wilhemina’s thigh. You gave it a gentle squeeze, then pressed the slow speed button of the remote control.

Wilhemina’s expression did not change, but she stiffened on her chair almost imperceptibly. She shot you an offended look, and took hold of your hand on her thigh. You laced your fingers together, glad you had this silent way of communicating.

Someone on your left asked Mutt a question. You nodded at the answer, even though you had no idea what Mutt was talking about. Your heart was beating too fast, and you had to fight the smirk that tugged at your lips. You stroke your thumb over Wilhemina’s before you increased the speed of the vibrator.

It was incredible, how blank she managed to keep her face. The only indication that something was going on was the slow, gradual tightening of her grip on your hand.

Mutt started a video and sat down at one of the tables. You shot Wilhemina another glance, wondering if you should dare. Probably you shouldn’t. But heat was filling up your head again, and adrenaline was flowing in your veins and in the thrill of the moment, you pressed the high speed button.

Wilhemina’s hand squeezed yours so hard you thought she would crush your bones. You crossed your legs, forcing yourself to keep your face as straight as Wilhemina’s. A few seconds later you felt her thigh tremble, her nails digging into your skin. You switched the vibrator to medium speed, but didn’t turn it off.

The video ended – how long had it lasted? what had it been about? You had no idea – and Mutt stood up again, asked if anyone had questions. A woman at the back of the room raised her hand.

Wilhemina’s thigh trembled again. This time, her hips jerked slightly, but when you glanced at her, her face was as unreadable as ever. She met your eyes; hers were dark and heated.

You licked your lips. Wilhemina’s eyes flicked down to them. You stroked your thumb over her skin to help her ground herself and glanced at her in awe as her hips jerked again. Her shoulders slumped slightly as she came off her latest high, and she shifted uncomfortably on her seat, so you reached into your pocket and turned the vibrator off. Her hand gave yours a weak squeeze.

You noticed how her legs were slightly shaking when she stood up at the end of the presentation. You lowered your head and smiled to yourself. When you looked up again, she was already walking off, leaning a bit more heavily than usual on her cane, but when she reached the doorway she paused. She cocked her head to the side, as if she were making up her mind about something. Then she disappeared down the corridor.

It was even harder to focus on your work for the rest of the day. You kept glancing up at the clock on the wall. You barely got anything done, legs bouncing, heart beating too fast. More than once you had to force yourself not to run to Wilhemina’s office and lock her door behind you. When finally it was time to leave, you rushed out of the building and to the car park, where you and Wilhemina would usually meet to drive back home.

She arrived five minutes later, and your eyes devoured her body as she slowly, regally, walked up to you. You checked the place was empty before you slipped one arm around her waist, pulled her close and crashed your mouth against hers.

You kissed her until her hand came up to tug at your hair, hard. You pulled away with a gasp, met her eyes. Her pupils were blown wide, and her gaze was so wild and predatory it sent a shiver of delicious fear down your spine.

“You drive,” Wilhemina rasped. She leaned in, licked a trail up your neck with the tip of her tongue. “Be sure to make it home in half the time.”

The front door of your house had barely closed behind you two when you heard the sound of her cane as it hit the floor and then she was all over you, one hand cupping your face and the other pressing you against her as her lips and tongue and teeth claimed dominance over yours. Her nails dug into your cheek, her mouth planted hot, wet kisses down your neck that made your legs go weak. There was only heat and lust and love in your brain, and you knew you wouldn’t be able to resist her, knew she would take revenge on you now if you let her; so you grabbed the remote control and pressed the high speed button.

Wilhemina let out a loud moan, hips bucking into yours at the sudden sensation. Her eyes opened wide, and she gasped into your mouth as her hand clutched the back of your shirt. “Not fair,” she hissed. She nipped your lower lip, swallowed another moan. You wrapped your arms around her waist to support her as she climaxed, the tremors of her body running through yours as if you were one and the same.

Wilhemina’s hips shook violently, making her wince. “Turn it off,” she hissed weakly. “For God’s sake turn it off.”

You quickly obliged. She sank into you, your grip on her the only thing keeping her on her feet, and pressed her forehead against yours. You touched your nose to hers as she struggled to catch her breath.

After a few moments, her eyes fluttered closed.

“Sleepy?” you whispered fondly. “Or do you have enough strength left for another round?”

Wilhemina shivered. “Lord, have mercy,” she breathed. She opened her eyes, looked at you with a soft, adoring smile.

You made her dinner, helped her undress and lathered her body in the shower, careful to avoid touching her overstimulated core. You dried and combed her hair, and she insisted she did the same for you. She grazed her nails on your skull, pressed delicate kisses on your temple.

The sun had not yet set when you both settled in bed. Wilhemina lay on her back and you rested your head on her chest, slipping one hand under her shirt to feel her skin. It was way before your usual bedtime, but you couldn’t care less. Happiness was holding her.

You turned your head to kiss her collarbone. “Are you very sleepy?” you asked with a grin.

“Wait for your turn,” Wilhemina mumbled. “I’ll make you cry. You’ll be so embarrassed.”

You chuckled, caressed the soft skin just below the swell of her breast. “Whatever, babe.”

There was a quiet, comfortable pause. Wilhemina draped one arm around your waist.

“Do you have any idea what Mutt’s presentation was about?” you asked her.

“No.”

You chuckled again. “I’m so impressed by your poker face.”

“Took years of practice,” Wilhemina mumbled.

You blinked at that, at the hidden implication of her words. You couldn’t think about it for too long without becoming angry, so you took her hand in yours and brought it to your lips.

She opened her eyes as you pressed two kisses on each of her knuckles. Then you rested your linked hands on her stomach, and nuzzled her skin.

“I’m glad we can put that skill of yours to good use now,” you whispered.

Part 1  / Part 2 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6

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