#but so few things produce serotonin these days

[zurajanaizurakoda]

I don't think anyone cares, but the Gintama Discord has had several arguments about AI generated art. I put the posts I did on private post. It was a lot of fun, but I don't want to hurt anyone.

[rauspberries]

still a friend. - s.r.

sure hope it was one hell of a kiss, my friend.

spencer reid x bau liasion!reader.

summary: after your new boyfriend turns out to a murderer, spencer will do anything in his power to help you smile again.

tags: afab reader, sunshine x sunshine, mentions of guns, kidnapping, murder & other themes present in criminal minds, panic attack, hurt/comfort, forced proximity that’s not forced at all, i like to imagine it as later seasons reid [however there's no mention of prison arc], still a friend by the backseat lovers

word count: 3.1k

notes: ok hear me out. think about the episode 'lucky' and the episode 'penelope.' that's what i'm going for here. this is my first ever time writing spencer. it took me days. free me.

hey @reidswrld

If you closed your eyes tight enough, you felt like you were still there. Cold metal pressed against your temple, harsh words in your ears, the pull of rope against your wrists. Despite the familiarity of your home, decorated in low lights and multiple potted plants that were loved like your own children, you had been afraid. He had turned it into a place of fear, a spot for nothing but bad memories and bloodstains in your carpet.

It had been almost three weeks since your team had pushed into your apartment, only to be met with the sight of you bound to your dining room chairs, your boyfriend of only a couple weeks holding a handgun to your head. You loved those chairs, and had told the whole team about them right after you had purchased them. They were thrifted, hand-carved by an artist you never had the pleasure to meet. Shame that you’d never be able to look at them the same anymore.

Your boyfriend had been an idiot. A psychotic one, but an idiot all the same. He had left too much evidence behind with his three victims, making it too easy for your team to profile him and pick him out of their list of names. Once you had accidentally let it slip that the BAU was on the tail of their suspect, you had become a problem, needing to be eliminated. So he had tried.

You had worked as a liaison for long enough to learn a few tells of body language, or the original signs of psychopathic behavior. Despite this, you had missed all of them when it came to him. You had been too excited to find someone that could handle your busy and erratic schedule, someone that loved you for you, something that was rare in this day and age. You had even let his passive-aggressive demeanor slide, along with the comments that always tended to sting somewhere deep inside.

After he had been taken down by Morgan and Hotch, you’d wanted out of your apartment as soon as possible. JJ and Garcia had packed up your stuff based off of a small list you provided them once your hands and voice had stopped shaking. They had whispered in your presence, keeping secrets about the case to each other and asking if you were okay. They hadn’t needed to whisper – your ears hadn’t stopped ringing.

For a while, you stayed in a hotel, curled in the cool sheets that smelled like nothing as you stared at the plain walls, so different from the house you had turned into a home with wallpaper and pretty colors. For a while, you chastised yourself for not getting over it faster. You thought about how you should be stronger in times like these, especially with everything you saw on a daily basis in your job as the BAU unit’s liaison. Unfortunately, it was a lot easier to compartmentalize when it wasn’t happening directly to you. 

You weren’t like everyone else on your team, you couldn’t just act like these things didn’t happen.

You tried to trick your brain into producing serotonin. You attempted to shower every morning, eat three meals, even exercise in the seclusion of your hotel room. But every shower ended with you staring blankly at the wall, every meal went untouched, and once you were on the ground, you couldn’t get back up. 

As normal protocol, you were given a minimum of three weeks of leave in the wake of the event. For the first week, everyone took turns checking on you. Penelope brought you fun-colored stress toys that collected dust on the side table, while Emily and JJ sat with you to chat about anything but what had happened. 

And Spencer? Spencer brought you company. He sat at the desk chair in the corner, long legs stretched out as he babbled about anything and everything. Sometimes, he sat there quietly, only speaking up to ask you if you knew the answer to a certain crossword question. Usually, it was something easy, something he already knew. Like, a passionate declaration, like in marriage vows – the answer was too obviously avowal.

Each time he visited, he left a book for you, annotations directed towards you scribbled in the margins and tabs marking the parts he thought you’d like best. The first book, Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen, had a scrawl on the author’s dedication page, with Reid noting both opinions and facts about the book. You felt your lips twitch with the ghost of a smile as you read the definitions of both of the words in the titles and how they were related to the actual book, as you read the words and the facts the doctor had written in the blank spaces.

After a week of Spencer stopping by every day before and after work, you gave him the extra keycard to your room that you had been given when you checked in. A lot of the time you didn’t have the energy to crawl out of your bed, so it made it easier for you. Despite having the key card, he still always knocked, waiting on some type of verbal sign before actually opening the door and stepping in.

One night, he stopped by your hotel room, a take-out bag looped over his forearm as he rustled in his bag for the keycard. Once it was curled between his palm and fingers, he lightly rapped on the door, leaning his head closer to it to listen for your voice calling for him to come in. His brow furrowed when he was only met with the sound of your room’s AC unit and the faint sniffles it attempted to cover.

Immediately, he had bursted into your room after sliding the key card into the slot above the knob, long legs getting him to your bedside as soon as possible. His eyes had softened as he took in the sight of you sitting up, arms laced around your knees, which were pulled up to your chest defensively. Your eyes were dark, sullen, the whites of them red with irritation from pushing away tears. Even your breathing was erratic, chest rising and falling quickly until it sounded like wheezing.

Spencer had pulled you practically into his lap, your fingers gripping at the soft material of his sweater as his large hand ran up and down the expanse of your back. He had murmured soft words that didn’t quite register to you, however were soothing all the same, as he pressed your hand to his chest, letting you feel the steady beat of his heart.

Once you had finally been soothed properly, your breathing evening out as his hand slowed until it lay still on your spine, you explained to him that you had been woken by a nightmare, the same one that had been playing through your head for the past two weeks. Immediately, he insisted that you stay at his apartment. As if proving it would help steer your decision towards a “yes,” he spilled out facts about processing traumas, like how talking to people and reminding yourself of pleasant hobbies, along with being in a familiar place, would help with recovery.

Which is how you ended up curled up on his couch, fingers tracing the pages of the book in your lap. You had been picking through all of Jane Austen’s books since you had started sleeping on his couch, with Emma being your pick of the week. Spencer hadn’t gotten to annotating this one yet, too busy with a new case that had just come in, so you had plucked a pen off of his desk, scribbling notes just like he usually did. It didn’t matter much, since you tended to spill your opinion to him the minute he stepped through the door, however it kept your brain occupied.

Your head raises as you recognize the sound of his key in the lock, looking up and over your shoulder just as it opened. “Welcome home. I’m almost done with Emma. It’s quite amusing, less factual, so I’m not sure if you’ll like it, but it’s good.” You glance back down at the pages as you stick a receipt in the fold of the book, shutting it before continuing. “It’s about a matchmaker named Emma. She thinks she’s the best at it, especially because she set up the governess and a wealthy widower, but she ends up missing all of the signs that the men she’s matching are into her.”

As you speak, Spencer takes his satchel off, laying it on the armchair near the front door before slowly making his way towards his couch. A smile pulls at his lips as his fingers work to undo the buttons on his wrists, brow raising slightly. “You have been reading quite a bit since you settled in here.”

A soft huff leaves your nose as you settle back into the cushions, watching as he perches himself up onto the back of the leather couch. It feels wrong to be so comfortable in an apartment that’s not your own, but it’s almost impossible to not feel soothed by the dark wood that makes up his desk and bookshelves, which were stacked with books upon books of all different genres. The verdun color of the walls alongside the sets of patterned couch pillows and comfortable throw blankets were ten times better than the impersonable decorations of the hotel room you had lived in for two weeks.

“Well, you don’t have a TV, and you can’t play chess by yourself.” There’s a pause, and then you speak again. “Unless you’re you. And I’m not,” you add, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them.

He folds the edges of his sleeves back towards himself, pushing up the fabric up to his elbows, revealing his forearms slowly. “Playing chess by yourself is actually the best way to learn how to play and hone your skills. Many professional chess players, such as Bobby Fischer, often play chess alone. It helps you learn the game and discover what type of player you are. It gives you more time to focus on your moves so that, in an actual chess match, you don’t run out of time before you know what to do.”

You toss the ballpoint pen in your hands at his chest, huffing in mock irritation as he easily catches it and tosses it back to you. “Good thing I’m not looking to switch career paths anytime soon, hm?” Your brow quirks slightly, your amusement apparent only in that little movement.

“That it is.” He responds, still holding a soft smile as his coffee-colored eyes soften around the corners edges. His gaze averts downwards at his fingers as he starts to tug on them, growing sheepish. “How have you been?” 

Despite the vagueness and normalcy of the question, you immediately know what he’s referring to, suddenly finding the loose threads on the blanket over your lap very interesting. “Better,” you admit, seeing no reason to lie. “The nightmares aren’t as bad as they were back at the hotel, but they’re not gone. The panic comes and goes.”

Slowly, like he’s afraid he’ll spook you, he stands back up, moving around the couch before settling a cushion away from you. He leans back against the arm of the couch as he starts working at loosening his tie, pulling it over his head before laying it on his coffee table. “Do you want to talk about it? All aspects of trauma can be lessened by communicating it to a trusted individual. Not necessarily go through it again, like cognitive interviews, but speaking more about the depth of it. How you felt, why you still feel it even after that, the direct cause of feeling like you’re still there.”

Just like that, you’re setting your book aside, knees pulling up to your chest in an attempt to shy away. It’s funny how you can know body language so well and yet not stop yourself from giving yourself away with it. Knees to chest meant a multitude of things, such as defensive posture or an intense interest in wanting to leave conversations or situations. You had to look at the situation as a whole to figure out the exact reason, or the other cues. Hunched back and averted eye contact usually indicated sadness, fear or insecurity. The rub of your own hand against your arm indicated self-soothing. It was all about the context.

Spencer notices quickly, reaching out to brush his fingertips against your kneecap. Despite the soft touch, he doesn’t speak, lips pressing in a harder line as he simply gazes at you. He’s waiting for you to speak, to take in whatever information you’ll give him. 

Looking into his eyes, you realize why people call them ‘puppy dog eyes.’ Glancing into them, you’re ready to spill your guts about just about everything. You’re tempted to tell him about the candy bar you stole when you were in sixth grade, or when you tripped someone in the high school hallway because they kept shoving into you.

“I thought he liked me.” You mumble once you realize you had just been staring at him for the past few moments, plucking at the throw blanket again as you avert your gaze. “But looking back, he was a bit mean. He’d always make these little comments.” You clear your throat as you glance towards the ceiling, blinking quickly to try and avoid the sting of tears. “Like ‘didn’t you wear that shirt yesterday,’ or ‘sure you don’t want to change’?”

As you speak, Spencer’s hand moves to cup your entire kneecap, thumb brushing against the soft spot in the middle. His touch is warm, heating up the skin underneath your sweatpants. He can practically see the words on the edge of your tongue, allowing you to continue. 

Your focus doesn’t stray from the hand on your knee as you let the words fall out. “He’d knocked on my door. It was normal. Stepped inside, let me kiss him on the cheek. Thinking about it makes me want to gag.” One of your hands lifts to touch your fingers against your mouth, tracing the line of your lips as you remember the feel.

“You can feel the change in the room when someone goes from good to bad. I didn’t think it’d be like the movies and shows, where they describe their eyes as darkening or their smile as wicked, but it is. The energy changes. It feels like slow motion.” 

Your breathing picks up as you speak. Spencer’s quick to notice it, body leaning closer towards you, like he’s prepared to catch you if you fall. Your lips part in an attempt to speak again, but the words are swallowed by a soft sob. Before you know it, you’re tumbling down a hill, heart beating faster and breathing growing quicker.

Memories, the science that comes along with them, are all one hell of a thing. Everything about them has an effect on the brain. Things like sounds, smells, textures, they’re connected to the memories. Meaning if you think about them, if you feel them, you end up right back where you were at that time and place. Like how sunshine on your skin reminds you of days at the park as a young kid, or how the smell of flowers brings you back to the farmer’s market on a Sunday after you just moved to DC. 

Thinking about what led up to you being tied up to the chair, you can feel it. The icy chill of fear that cascaded over your back, the dread that sunk deep in your stomach, even the goosebumps that traveled up your arm. They’re all there. It’s like it’s happening again.

Your vision blurs around the edges as you struggle to take in air, hand grasping at Spencer’s for any type of support. You’re aware of what’s happening, but you cannot stop it, not even as you try to take in air into your nose and out through your mouth. His voice echoes in your head, but it morphs into something different, something distorted.

You’re only brought out of your panic by the feeling of lips on yours.

Your eyes widen at the shock of it, chest still heaving as your breath evens out. Your hand still clutches at Spencer’s as you feel your entire body relax, allowing yourself the comfort of kissing him back.

After your entire body has relaxed, your chest no longer hurting with the strain of lost breath, Spencer pulls away. His eyes are slightly wide as he looks at you, studying your face for any signs of being uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. Uhm.” He clears his throat, leaning away from you as he runs his hands through his hair. “Uh, kissing. It releases so-called happy chemicals, such as oxytocin and serotonin, tricking your brain into leaving the panic behind. It also helps you steady your breathing. Nothing else was working so, uh…”

As he trails off, you reach out to grab his hand again, giving it a soft squeeze. “Thank you.” It’s not meant to be a reassurance, but it's close enough. 

You watch as the panic slowly leaves his eyes, settling into only a soft worry, although his cheeks are still dusted with a light shade of pink. “You’re welcome,” he responds bashfully, eyes still looking down at his lap.

A soft laugh leaves your lips as you reach up to brush your tears away, leaning back into the couch again. After a moment of silence, you roll your lips into your mouth before speaking. “Can we go see a movie?”

Spencer’s brows raise in surprise, the lines on his forehead from focusing so much prominent. “Like, at a theater? Are you sure?” He’s still tugging at his fingers as he speaks, head tilting slightly as he assesses all of your body language.

You smile sheepishly at him, body slowly uncurling. “Yeah. I have a tough BAU agent to protect me, don’t I?”

He smiles brightly at that, eyes softening as he glances back up at your face. “That you do.” part two is here.

[sanakimohara]

can u do emo han Jisung x hello kitty person reader if it's okay??? (make Jisung Dom cuz, never seen someone make him🤷)

“SWEET N’ SOUR” H. J. Pt. 1

Pen has returned to paper. Hope this fulfills your wish, my love…

WARNINGS: [ MDNI ] + [ NSFW ] + [SMUT ] + [ ORAL ] + [ NO PLOT ] + [ DUB CON / VIOLENCE ….ig?… ] + [ SLIGHT BREATH DEPRIVATION ] + [HUMILIATION / DEGRADATION ]

Jisung is slightly perplexed by how soft you are for him from the start. You're gentle, always curious, and slightly touched in the head. He can't tell if you mean to come off so nostalgic and innocent, second-guessing his assumptions about you anytime; a semi-violent threat towards another person trying to gain his attention leaves your cherry-glossed lips. You can be all giggly, obsessed with your stuffed animals, and snuggled all under him in one moment. Then, the next, you're glaring stubbornly, subtly clinging to him when someone you don't particularly care for is near or snapping back at him when he touches a nerve. It gives the poor man whiplash, but it fills his head with a particular strain of serotonin no one but you can produce.

Jisung is anything but frightened by your love for softer colors and little trinkets. He could tell you had a minor addiction to “cute” things early on, rather fond of seeing you bounce up and down on your tip toes when a new Sanrio item caught your attention and quickly getting used to purchasing it without you having to ask. Almost every little thing he bought for you furthered the addiction he had to see you all dolled up and content with adorable trinkets. There were times when a subtle perversion entered his mind. On more than a few occasions, he’d bought you things solely because his cock hardened seeing you so excited to have them. Other times, his selfish desire to see you walking around in nothing but the new Hello Kitty panties and matching cropped sweater drove him to order another box of pastel-colored items.

Jisung often doesn’t know how to handle himself when you simultaneously act so stubbornly and sweetly to him. You’re asking him to be mean to you more often than not, and he gives in without hesitation. “You can’t tell me what to do!” You huff loudly, upset that he’s walked into your room and shut your laptop, completely interrupting your binge-watching session. He smiles, snatching it from your tight grip before kneeling at the foot of your bed to be at eye level. You glare, moving to scoot away from him and get your computer back. It's not every day your favorite anime puts out a new season, and his intruding isn’t deterring you from watching the whole thing in one night. Or so you think…

Jisung has other plans for you both. You don’t have the chance to slide back from him, held in place by his right hand, which you initially thought was intended to caress your cheek but was instead fisted in your hair at the back of your head. He pulls roughly once, forcing your head to follow his grip as you yelp and claw at the pink duvet underneath you. “Thought I told you to start going to bed at a decent time, kitten. Why lie and say you were asleep when I called you earlier?” He tugs again, not ashamed to smile as tears well up in your pretty doe eyes, begging to slide down your face when you wince slightly from the pain he causes. “It was just for tonight, I swear! I…I just wanted to see it..” You squirm more, embarrassed that he caught you in a lie and frightened by the dead stare he’s been giving you. “Not a good enough answer, sweetheart. Why’d you lie..?”

Jisung is a liar, a convenient one in his own right, and you always fall for it. No matter how often you tell him the truth, he taunts you for a better excuse, feeling so much more authoritative in the confines of your cozy bedroom. In that little world between you both, he is, in fact, your villain, dark and cunning in the glow of soft fairy lights hanging from pastel-pink walls. Rough and demented with your gentler presence. You don’t mind being stiffly handled by him, putting up a small fight when he stands to flip you over on your back. He gives you a chance to win when you do struggle. His hand remains tangled in your hair, pulling the soft locks until your head lazily hangs off the edge of the bed and not letting go even when you reach to try pushing him away. “Jisung- ah! Mngh-“Your begging is reduced to a timid whimper as his free hand whips across your face. The oddly swift strike makes your body shiver, and a cold spark runs down your spine as he stares at you. “You had your chance to speak. Useless as it is, I think it’s pretty cute that you have so much to say. Why don't we fix that, hm?…” Your hands tremble as he grasps them in his free one, pushing them down to rest together on your lower stomach. The pit of your abdomen flips itself, feeling his touch tighten on you, amping up in frequency when he smirks at the sight of your new pastel pink panties hugging your hips and covering your soft mound.

Jisung is tempted to slip his hand past the thin fabric, wanting to feel your warm folds in his palm, craving to spread the slickness he knows is pooling between your legs all over his fingers. He takes a breath, reigning in the desire and focusing on what to do about your oh-so-snappy mouth. He has more than a few ideas visibly running through his mind, and they are all broadly humiliating to you. You keep your mouth shut, your heart thundering, and your body running hotter with each passing second. When Jisung stops talking, everyone is at an unease. Especially you. It only meant he was plotting to do something strangely frightful. Sadistic even.

“Open” is the first word he utters after a long, silent moment. His hand in your hair disappears for a split second, a familiar sound of a zipper being undone and a shift of clothing rearranging before his hold on your hair returns. Through the tears in your eyes, you get a view of the tip of his cock, swelling with pre cum, stiff and fully erect with purpose. You gulp, lashes lowering as drool pools in your mouth. It takes only one look at his cock to make you dumbfounded with lust. It's an automatic reaction he’s trained into you for months and one you sincerely enjoy. Not a single thought runs through your mind seeing his cum drizzle down the length of his cock, the creamy substance reminding you of sweet cream and urging you to obey his singular command for a good taste of it. “Mkay..” you mumble, in a daze as your lips part, and slipping deeper into it when he slowly sinks his cock in the warm wet cavern inch by inch with ease. Jisung watches intently as you take him in with a soft gasp, gagging slightly when his tip brushes the back of your throat. “See? You just wanted something good to suck on, kitten… feels good to be useful, doesn’t it?” He groans loudly, smiling wildly as you swallow him whole, accepting his cock with sloppy slurps and trying your best to breathe while he fucks your face at a set pace. You jolt and shift as he uses you relentlessly, spitting up a mix of saliva and his arousal with every other thrust he gives, but not once tapping out in hopes of him being lenient with you. Jisung refuses, mouth falling open to let out convoluted moans and pleased grunts of praise. “Take it deeper, sweetheart.. oh fuck, just like that..”

Jisung trees carefully with your newfound talent, proud to see you helplessly deep-throating his cock, enjoying the tightness of your throat whenever you gag reactively. He watches the imprint of his cock mold your throat, involuntarily twitching when he glimpses the blush on your cheeks and the way your eyes slot in the back of your head. You can’t bring yourself to beg for air, dizzy from the force of his thrusts and in love with the taste of him. Your body relaxes, your core blooms with need, and your head rapidly empties of thoughts. Jisung’s skin glistens with sweat, barely visible from his shirt, trickling down his temple the closer he gets to his high. The hand in your hair loosens, gently gripping the nape of your neck as he snaps his hips into your face faster, chasing his climax with a grave groan rattling his chest. “Gonna cum…”

Jisung takes a glance at your trembling legs, peering down between them to see your cum leaking past the Hello Kitty patterned underwear. Your hips raised for a sense of friction, desperate to have your cunt touched, “Someone’s ready to be stuffed full… gettin’ desperate so soon is pathetic, but you can’t help it, can you?…” “Mmm ngh-“ You choke, eyes sliding shut completely as he thrusts into your mouth one last time, keeping his cock deep in your throat until the last drop of cum slides down it. You swallow once, a lewd gulping noise hitting his ears and sending a shiver up his spine. Your chest heaves with air when he slowly pulls away, thick strings of cum and saliva connecting your glossed lips with the tip of his cock. “Well done,” he mumbles, breathless and trying to catch it quicker than you.

Jisung succeeds, moving faster than you, quickly slipping onto the bed before dragging you to lay under him. Your stomach flips when he touches your bare skin, tracing the dip of your hips, carefully avoiding your clothed cunt until you whine loudly and trap his hand between your thighs. You glare at him, wanting your way now but too spent to voice it properly. He smiles, a gummy, cute expression that doesn’t match the harsh way his hands pry your legs apart. “You’re being a real pain today..” he mutters in one breath, enjoying your defiance to a point, “Maybe I shouldn’t fuck you at all. I think you’ll learn to be a little nicer…”

You gulp, eyes softening immediately, “I’ll good…I promise.” A sultry gasp flies from your lips, brought on by Jisung’s hands groping the fat of your thighs, spreading them for a better view of the space between them. He ignores your promise, eyeing the glistening patch of wetness seeping through the soft fabric of your underwear. You watch him stare, face burning with sparks of shame running through you, turning into rivets of pleasure when he rubs his thumb over clit gently for a moment. The tight circles he makes on the sensitive nerves have your back arching and your hands raised to grip his forearms. Jisung chuckles lowly, glancing up to glimpse the look on your face, and he’s far from disappointed seeing the lost look in your eyes. “Didn’t I just buy these for you, lil one? I could’ve sworn..” he pauses, watching your mouth fall open with a high-pitched wail, brows furrowing in slight disbelief as his thumb migrates down to your entrance, pushing into it through the fabric. It’s an odd feeling, being finger fucked with your panties, but he makes it somewhat intoxicating. The thought of ruining something he recently gifted you made your head spin with embarrassment, but you couldn’t help but enjoy it.

“…you promised not to ruin them. Now, look at you, making a mess of yourself, doing exactly the opposite.” Jisung switched to fucking you with his index and pointer fingers, smirking when you tightened down on them and involuntarily soaked through the pink cotton completely. “Did…didn’t mean to…” you ramble while whining, writhing underneath him to keep from instinctively locking his hand between your legs again. He helps you settle down, absentmindedly pressing his free hand down on your left thigh, effectively keeping you open for him. “Little liar,” he muses into your ear, biting it gently as his fingers curl inside to hit a particular spot in your warm walls. Your eyes slide shut, listening to the sound of rushed breathing, wet fabric being forced into your cunt filling the room.

Y'all, I feel a new hyper fixation coming on…ive already made another tumblr account for it...

[ BONUS CONTENT +]

You know, moaning his name might be the answer to all of your problems…;) Credits to creator 🖤

[onboardsorasora]

so my brain hasn't been the nicest and I literally can't seem to find the focus to write anything lately (I'm also looking for some serotonin T_T) so I'm popping on to drop the first like scene of otaku daniel because i honestly in my current state can't see me ever finishing it but I love it so much so yeah. I hope you guys like it, I've been meaning to post this for so long so I'm doing it before I chicken out again :(((

“Oh, a new sub! Max_v_maxx33, enchante.” The voice was accompanied by a grin and wink before a pink tongue was once again sticking out of the side of a heart shaped mouth.

Max settled himself in his rig, scratching a pec absently. He wasn’t scheduled to stream with Team Redline for another hour and that was good, he’d made sure to schedule the group stream after Daniel was finished with his. 

He’d found the account by accident a few weeks ago, a clip from a stream had made its way to instagram and he would admit to himself and himself only that he’d been dazzled by a smile and crinkly eyes. He didn’t watch many other streamers, and didn't particularly care to. He only streamed because Gianni had said it would have been a good way to get sponsors for Redline and he’d been right. 

Their streams were popular, no matter what they were playing. And once they disconnected, they tended to stay online longer– just to play some more together. Privately like they used to. 

Max didn’t really enjoy watching other people game. He also didn’t enjoy vlogs, yet he found himself tuning into Daniel’s streams when he could. If only to hear him laugh a little, or a lot. Daniel laughed a lot and Max loved to hear the sound.

He figured it wouldn’t hurt to sub from one of his burner accounts. Daniel’s account was a guilty pleasure of his and he didn’t need to share him with the wider world.

Dan_the_Badge3 or Daniel was a relatively smaller account. He lived and breathed anime and anything kawaii. It took Max a little time to understand that, he’d been annoyed at himself that he wouldn’t stop watching after the third time when Daniel went off into a rant about which anime were better for people starting out. He’d gotten into a full blown argument with the chat and ended up pausing his game. Max didn’t watch anime, didn’t plan to, but he found himself making note of Daniel’s choices all the same.

Daniel’s curly hair was dark, long and wild. And always covered by his favourite headphones that had cat ears on top. He rotated between three designs, and currently he used a blue and white pair with ‘old skool’ flames on them. He always sported a sweatshirt or hoodie, mostly his own designs and he loved them oversized so he could have ‘sweater paws’. Max found it endearing as hell. 

Today was Wednesday and Daniel used those for productivity power hours for his subscribers. He usually did something mundane and would chatter away for an hour or so. He called his Wednesday streams “Badger Mode” and at first Max didn’t ‘get it’, but a quick lurk of the chat had produced people chiming in on what they planned to work on and others thanking Daniel for his ‘parallel play’ and ‘sprints’.

Max inadvertently found that he relaxed more before Redline’s Wild Wednesday streams than any other day. So maybe Badger Mode had more positives than just him staring at the slope of Daniel’s nose for an hour. What a cute nose it was.

“So I told Chelle that I wanted to like try crochet– because she makes all these pretty things and like she laughed at me and asked me if I could count.” Daniel’s voice was fondly annoyed while he spoke about his older sister. Max grinned to himself at Daniel’s exaggerated eye roll. He had a skein of red yarn in one hand and a hook in the other, the pattern had already been started. “So I annoyed her until she gave me these and started a pattern for me. I wanna make like a small plushie, but maybe I should like start with something basic. Like a scarf. Or maybe a– a square.” Daniel continued to ramble and Max felt his shoulders drop in relaxation.

“What are you guys working on today, chat?” Daniel leaned back into his gamer chair– that also had cat ears– and put his foot up on the corner of the desk. A static rectangle popped up on the screen obscuring his feet with a cartoon honey badger holding a sign that read ‘no feet for free’. Max chuckled. 

“Good luck on your essay Falconado73! Meerlymeerly I feel your pain, that laundry isn’t gonna do itself!” Daniel continued to babble to the chat while attempting to crochet and Max enjoyed watching his fingers as he tried to work. “Jeepers, I really can’t count. Do you guys mind if I like count aloud for these next couple rows to get the hang of it? No one like told me there was so much counting involved?!” Daniel laughed before starting a halted counter while he focused hard on the red material.

Max checked his phone, answering a few emails about sponsor stuff and replying to the Redline private discord. He looked up a few times to see that Daniel’s tongue was once again sticking out of his mouth and he felt hopelessly endeared. His cat, Sassy, jumped into his lap for a second. 

“What’s that mark on your neck?” Daniel leaned closer to his screen to read before leaning back and laughing merrily. Max’s eyes honed to his exposed neck for this proposed mark and he absolutely ignored the slight clench in his chest. 

“I bet you all are hoping it's something like juicy but it isn’t. Yeah nah, sorry to burst your pervy bubbles.” Daniel snorted and Max took a deep breath. “I thought I was gonna get stung by a wasp and like was trying to bat it away with my brush and I scratched myself with the bristles. Then I realized it wasn’t a wasp but like a bee and I felt like so bad cause I didn’t want to accidentally kill it.” 

Daniel continued to ramble while he worked and Max stared at his mouth, at how his lips formed his words before stretching in a smile. Max thought Daniel’s Australian accent was hot as hell.

“How is the apartment search going?” Daniel read again and groaned. Max’s ears perked up, apartment search?

“Itssssss not going? Nah, yeah I haven’t like started looking as yet. I don’t even know which country I want to move to yet. So we’re still in the beginning stages of like that whole thing.” Daniel laughed. “Move to Japan with Yuki? Oh mochiro– I mean it's not out of the realm of possibilities. Yeah that’s all I’ll say there. I have like a list of countries and I guess I need to do a pros and cons thing–” 

Daniel did that sometimes, mixed other languages with his babbling. He spoke Japanese with his friend Yuki when they streamed together– there was an ai translator bot that provided subtitles, except for when they started rambling and laughing and it couldn’t pick up what they were saying. Those times, Max just liked to stare at Daniel. And he sometimes spoke Italian, specifically when he was speaking to people off camera, like his grandparents.

Max’s phone beeped with his Redline stream reminder. He stroked Sassy’s fur before hovering his mouse over the exit stream button. He took a long look at Daniel’s smiling face before leaving the stream and jumping into his team’s account.

[stupidnicknamehere]

Zolu ship from an Aroace's POV

Since this is my personal experience and very, very intimate, I don't plan to delve into more details, but after recent situations and some zolu shippers sharing their aroace identity, I thought I would share mine.

As an aroace person, I have never experienced conventional physical attraction, but that in no way means I haven't fallen in love. With my partners, I came to experience a close emotional bond of trust and attachment, which led me to fall in love. There was no sensuality, flirting or courtship. Physical intimacy was not an act of carnal desire either, but rather an emotional and close experience.

A lot of this has resonated with the Zolu ship for me. It is not about passions or carnal desires, it is about that emotional bond full of affection and genuine trust. It is not a fall in love produced by dopines, serotonins and oxycotins. It's about knowing a person, really knowing them, and not being able to imagine your days without them. For me, it is not feeling my heart race when I see them, rather the opposite, it is feeling calm and safe. It's not desperation or debauchery to jump into bed with them, it's the curiosity of sharing a new experience with your partner, even though you know you could be fine without it. And it can be great and satisfying, but you know that you couldn't do it with just anyone, only with the one with whom you share so many emotions and affections.

It is something so rare for me to find within fiction that I have not been able to help identifying myself, not in Zoro or Luffy, but in this way of loving someone. That is why, above all, I value their true relationship within the canon. It feels like "more than a friendship but less than a brotherhood". Unlike many fictional pairings, this is one of those few that is based on affection, loyalty, respect, good and kind things.

Yes, I am an aroace person and have had some of the experiences that many have said an aroace person is not capable of, and Zolu is not only a comfort ship for me, it also helps me affirm my identity. Maybe that's why many of us aroace love this ship, at least I think I can understand why aroace like their dynamics so much.

Like I said, this is just my experience and point of view.

Furthermore, there is no canonical sexuality for these characters, and just because you like to imagine that Luffy is an aroace who ignores romance and doesn't understand physical intimacy doesn't mean you should push it towards others.

And screw everyone who says that an aroace can't fall in love or enjoy sex with someone. For me, Zoro and Luffy fuck each other👌

[dracomusic325]

Analysis of Octavia's Confrontation at Stolas in Season 2 Episode 12: Sinsmas From Someone Who Also Struggles With Depression (Spoilers for Helluva Boss under the cut)

I've been thinking about Helluva Boss's season 2 finale, Sinsmas episode, specifically the scene where Octavia is confronting Stolas and I wanted to give my 2 cents about that scene as someone who also takes medication for depression and has been doing so for a few years ago (featuring some info I remember from Intro to Psych).

Via stated that she was confused about why Stolas needed to have anti-depressants (or happy pills or whatever it's called in the Hellaverse), believing that she was doing something wrong and that's why he was taking them. Now, depression is when your brain struggles to make happy chemicals, specifically serotonin, so people who are diagnosed with depression are often given prescribed medication aka anti-depressants.

You can see on the label of the pill bottles that Via finds in that episode that it's prescribed to Stolas, so it's likely he was diagnosed with depression and he takes anti-depressants to help his brain produce serotonin. And obviously, after Mastermind, he missed several days of dosages, which explains his mental breakdown later in Sinsmas. As someone who has accidentally missed a few days' worth of dosages, mental breakdowns are likely going to happen more frequently because your brain lacks serotonin.

Via being confused about Stolas needing anti-depressants is understandable, especially since he probably wasn't sure how to explain his depression to his 17-year-old daughter, which is partially the reason Via's confronting him because he wasn't being upfront about his mental health. But the hiding of his depression could be because he didn't feel safe enough to talk about it, especially because of Stella. Another reason could be that he didn't want to stress Via out with that information. After all, she would probably try harder to be a better daughter, even though it's not her fault. She's young, she's bound to think that kind of stuff when it comes to one of her parents' mental health.

Now, this isn't a hate post for the episode, I really enjoyed that episode and I'm hyped for Season 3. Like I said, this is just me giving my 2 cents about that scene as someone who is also medicated for depression. I love Stolas and Octavia so much and I can see where both sides are coming from in the confrontation. Both have flawed logistics for doing the things they're doing, which is natural in an argument. So yeah!

Lemme know if you guys have any other thoughts on that scene and if I should talk about anything else related to Helluva Boss as someone who struggles with mental health issues. And don't worry, I am doing fine mentally, so don't ask me how I'm doing, please. Thank you for reading my analysis, which I wrote at 2:30 in the morning lmao. Alright, good night.

[resi4skz]

A drabble because I had to write it down when I thought of it. Please don't mind my writing as I'm a new writer :(

Pairing: Chan(producer) x Y/N(female reader)

Title: Second Chances

When you know the person you love gets sweeped of her feet by another and all you....I can do is watch her be happy and in love. So much love that she invites me to her wedding as her bridesman. I couldn't refuse. Not when it's Y/N. She's my best friend and the only person who I relied on when my music career was starting off. She was there to pick me up when I had bad days. She was there to take care of me when I was sick as a dog and cured me till I was well enough to go back to work.

Now as I stand at the altar and watch her walk down the aisle. She was breathtaking. Her eyes shined holding the galaxy in them and the smile on her face brought a sudden boost of serotonin in everyone. She was like that. She was the one who cheered everyone up, including me. The room was brighter with her in it.

I catch her eyes and she smiles. It hurts. It hurts to know I never got to tell her my true feelings. I give her thumbs up as she walked to her husband-to-be, Shaun. They were in love, I knew that for sure. They met in her last year college and they hit it off right away. I had never seen her so happy. It hurt, my heart not be able to see her with him.

I watch as they read their vows and kiss, binding their future together. And then they both run outside, sit in a car and drive off to their lives together. Smiling, I watch the car fade into a dot. A tap on my shoulder brings me back to reality and turn to see her best friend and her boyfriend, Han, who's also my best friend too. "Will you be okay?" Luna asked.

"Yes," I replied, smiling and glance at Han. "I'll be fine."

"I know it must've been hard to see her go," Han said, patting my arm.

"Guys," I sighed. "It's not the end of the world. I've got my music and she got her happy ending. That's all that matters to me."

Or so I thought.

Because a few years later, I'm back in Korea. My music career took off and decided to move back to Seoul. It was a nice change for once and the environment took some time to get used to but knowing korean was a big advantage for me. It helped me a lot during the first few months here. I had help from Han as he also moved here with Luna and started their lives together.

On the way back to my apartment, I decided to stop by at the convenience store to buy some snacks. As I'm picking up a ramen pack, I freeze as I hear a familair voice. "Mom, I'm not going over with you on this one. Shaun and I are different now. It's best if-"

I hear her sigh. "Mom. I'm going to go. I'll call you when I know you won't berate me for picking a life that doesn't make me miserable anymore. Bye."

My eyes frantically search the store. It can't be. It can't be her. Then everything around me fades as I see her. Long black hair down to her back, wearing a very baggy shirt and tights that showed off her curves.

It can't be.

All the feelings and emotions that I had stored away come rushing back hitting me like a ton of bricks. All these years, I had always yearned for her. I wanted to be with her all the time. But now as she stand at the cash register speaking fluent korean, I'm rooted to my spot. Chan, you idiot, MOVE. It's only when she disappears from sight, that I sprint outside, after her.

"Y/N!"

She stops walking and turns around. Her eyes go wide. "Channie?"

Smiling, and nervous, I approach her. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Channie, what are you doing here?" She asked. A genuine question.

"I moved back here."

"Oh."

"What brings you here? Are you and Shaun visiting here?"

She blinks at me. Oh, way to go Chan, you just made her uncomfortable. "Shaun and I aren't together anymore."

"What?"

"Yeah, him and I didn't work out. He wanted different things. I wanted different things. So we decided to divorce," she replied.

"When?"

"Last May."

I take a step forward. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She shrugs her shoulders. "I wanted to but so much happened that I never got around to it."

She had eyebags under eyes and she looked like she hadn't been sleeping well. "Are you okay?"

Her eyes meet mine. "Yes."

But I knew her. She wasn't fine. "Starshine, you know you can't lie to me."

"Channie, I....I can't," she whispered.

Taking another step forward, I wrap my arms around her enveloping her in a hug. "It's okay. You don't need to put the tough act in front of me. You know I can see right through you, Starshine."

I hear her sob before her arms go around me. And she finally lets go.

-----------------------------------------------------------

A couple of weeks go by, Y/N and I have been meeting up for coffee and lunch almost every day, catching up on the lost time. "So, Mr. Producer, when do I get to listen to the songs you made?"

I sip on my tea. "Say when and I'll take you to the studio."

It was so cute seeing her eyes light up like a child given candy. I chuckle. "Can we go now?"

Glancing down at my watch, I nod. "Sure. Let's finish our drinks and I'll drive us to the studio."

20 mins later...

I open the door to the studio and walk inside, with Y/N trailing behind me. I hear her whistle. "Wow. You weren't kidding when you said your music took off. It really did take off."

I chuckled. "Impressed?"

"Very."

Something in my heart blooms hearing her say that. "Have a seat." I turn everything on and wait for the screen light up. Opening my MacBook, I open a file and click play.

The sound comes through the speakers sitting on the desk, the melody immediately playing. Then my voice comes on and I feel my ears warming.

I'm never letting go

Let's go on a little walk, see the world outside

Don't wanna let you go

The way that you give me your hands, I'll fly

At times when I feel down or empty

You're always beside me

Promise that I'll love you plenty

I hope this'll never end for eternity

Lowering the volume, I swivel my chair around, facing her. "So?"

"Is that you singing?"

"Yeah," I rub the back of my neck. "It's pretty bad, I know."

"Are you kidding?" She says, smiling. "Channie, you voice is lovely! Why didn't you tell me you also sing?"

I laugh nervously. "The topic never came up."

"So, you're not just good looks after all."

I whipy head at her. "What?"

She rolls her eyes. "Like you don't know how many girls threw themselves at you and you never even looked at them."

"So? It's not like I was looking for anything," I replied.

"Why not?"

"Y/N, you don't want to know," I turn back around and turn everything off.

"But why not? There are a lot of women that would kill to date you."

Sighing, I stand and turn around. "But I don't want to date them."

Now she stand up. "Is there someone you like?"

I don't reply to her question. "Oh my, there is!"

"Y/N, just...."

"Who is it?"

Sighing, I turn for the door but she stops me by grabbing my arm. "Let go, Y/N."

"Tell me who the girl is and I'll let go your arm."

"Y/N, I don't want to talk on such things." I close my eyes, trying to hold onto the thin thread of my breaking point.

"Channie, we're best friends. If not me, who are you going to tell?" I know she means well but then goes and tugs at my arm. The thread breaks and I turn around, gripping her arms, I swivel around her and shove her against the door. "Chan, wha-"

"I told you to drop it. I told you to leave it alone but you just had to test my patience." I step forward, invading her privacy. "You want to know who it is I like?"

Her cheeks turn pink but nods, blinking up at me.

"It's you," I confess and take a big step back.

"What?"

"It's," I laugh. "It's always been you, Y/N. Even before you got married." I look at her and immediately regret telling her. "I know this must be a lot to take in but I promise you, I will never act on my feelings because I know you don't feel the same."

Then in slow mo, I watch her walk up to me. "Pabo," she whispers as she leans up, placing her lips on mine. When she pulls away, she smiles at me. "Who told you I don't feel the same? I've had a crush on you since high school."

I blink, once, twice and three times. "What....uhm. What?"

She snorts, laughing softly. "I'll admit I fell for Shaun and we chose different paths. And after running into you again, I felt alive again. You made me be me again. Thanks to you, I'm looking forward to everything. Because if it weren't for you, I'd have ki-"

"Don't you dare say it," I growled. I place my hands around her neck, making her look at me. "Never say that."

"Okay," she says but it came out as a whisper. "Chan-"

I don't waste another second and crash my lips down on hers. I always imagined what kissing her would feel like. But this was beyond my imagination. He soft lips opened, letting me invade her mouth. She tasted like strawberries. So sweet.

We break apart, our foreheads touching. "This mesns our friendship is doomed."

She bites her lip and giggles. "Second chances are one of a kind, at least for me."

And she was right. Second chances are one of a kind. But for me, this was the only kind of love I wanted to keep and cherish for the rest of my life.

[blackmageeljin]

Hey! Just wanted to reach out and let any followers mostly here for my work on Repeat:|| know that I AM STILL WORKING ON IT! I REALLY AM!

I have about 20-25k words currently unpublished and am like... 1/2 to 2/3 to the end. I'm sure with Missing Link dropping soon KH will be driving the serotonin bus again and the hyperfocus will Get It Done.

Previously, it was easy to denote a section as 'done' when they moved on from a world, and so I could easily publish those sections. But as I entered the finale, keeping all the timey whimey stuff sorted and dealing with significantly more moving parts and suddenly a much larger cast of characters, I resolved to not begin posting again until the whole thing was done so I would have the luxury of shifting things around as needed.

It has taken a lot of time and recovery to just be able to feel comfortable using Tumblr again, or posting any kind of writing. I have a few Hazbin fics up because that fandom is generally less changed and it is easy to hide behind the Asexual Vore Demon. Also, I am not playing 5 dimensional time travel chess writing for it haha, so it is something that is just a lot easier to produce if I am not having a good health day. But honestly, even that took a lot of courage and I waited a long time before posting, as my agoraphobia became significantly more severe for a while. I spent a lot of time catching up in JJBA in the past few years too, but haven't posted any of the writing I've done for it for fear of the witch hunting doxxing campaigns that go on over ships and things over there.

Admittedly that has taken longer than anticipated for a lot of reasons ranging from ye olde social anxiety and fandom drama to just real world stuff. A tree fell on my house! On a happier note, I now have two goats and they are named Xehanort and Eraqus.

Admittedly, besides logistics, I am waiting until it is done to post because I don't want to deal with any drama/fallout for how I handle things like Xehanort's Actual Motivations™, how characters who have previously not had screen time get characterized, my understand of certain metaphysics, people being upset things Are Wrong when in fact I am referencing something that is explicitly canon from KHUX and such that they haven't played, a lack of understand of the inherent themes of moral philosophy and the duality of history, and, you know, people generally being bitchy. The finale is a turning point in a few ways, in that both the tone shifts and that it's when all the 'hot takes' come fully to light, so I am nervous. For people who have been nothing but supportive I will finish this. For you and for myself and for Sora and Xeha. But fuck if fandom spaces aren't as safe as they used to be, and I'm tired.

As a teaser some general things to look forward to are: Riku finding out about The Boyfriend, light squad screen time, yelling at Yensid, Ansem SoD but he has awkward estranged dad energy, ominous Vanitas implications, things that come out of Lea's mouth, Kairi being relevant.

And if you read this far, here's a lil preview snippet for you:

"After I do that, you gotta hand over your guardian.” Sora clarified. When Ansem nodded he reached his own hand forward and shook.

“Deal.”

Sora half expected some kind of sinister dark magic to flare up when they shook hands… but nothing happened. It was almost anticlimactic, just a normal handshake. That was… good? But it still left Sora waiting for the other shoe to drop again.

Sora turned around to face the other two who had come with him. “Alright then. I… guess I have some work to do.”

Xehanort began to answer, only to be cut off.

“Oh, and Sora? One more thing.”

Sora half turned back to the heartless, getting ready to give him an ear full for trying to pull something, but-

“Be sure to take careful care of my youngest self. By Vanitas’ logic, he is as my precious baby brother. It would be remiss of me not to do my familial duty and ensure the well being of his heart.”

To which Sora, unsurprisingly, turned bright red and began floundering helplessly.

“You!” Xehanort was not faring much better.

And Vanitas had gone from poorly hidden laughter to full blown cackling. Then he stepped forward and high fived the Heartless.

And that was… huh.

Something about that, about seeing Ansem of all people acting like a regular guy… high fiving his friend and laughing over something stupid and- and normal like teasing someone over their boyfriend and not something super evil or sadistic. He was a Heartless- and in a way, Vanitas sort of was too, right? But right now they were just acting like regular everyday people…

Sora adopted an overly dramatic serious expression and gave Ansem a salute. “I’ll have him back by 10, sir!”

“Sora!” Xehanort hissed full of betrayal. Sora flashed him an apologetic grin. Ansem’s grin was significantly less apologetic, if not amused.

“Good man.”

[shraqsmuses]

You have Luvia's favorite pink girls, Junko and Baiken!!

She loves her pinkette's rough and crude~~

"What in the… I don't know who this Luvia girl is but what is she calling me 'rough and crude' for? I haven't been THAT brutish in a while! Does she think I'm gonna whip her the moment I look at her? That's nearly insulting!

"Nay. I plan for the downfall of my cohorts. Do you believe the Killing School Life was exclusively planned through the whimsical cacophony that rattled my mind in days that are a worthwhile distance away from the one in which we stand? I had to learn more about all of my classmates. Their motivations, talents, personalities, relationships amongst themselves, preferences, the things they abhor… All of this was taken into consideration as I devised what was ultimately a drama meant to appeal to my amusement.

"Then again… That got too boring for me. The thought of knowing everything that was gonna happen was going to put me in a really bad mood. I could already feel the tears swelling up to my eyes, engulfing my vision as the first case proceeded without any deviation from my plan. It made me realize just how empty my chest felt at that moment. I had to fill it with something that would give it the energy to keep the blood in my body flowing through its many vessels or there was a probable chance I might've just become catatonic… That's why I had to kill my sister. I had to fight through the remorse to keep myself alive. The woe of such a betrayal was what my heart demanded in order to convince my heart to keep my heart. She probably still hates me for that right now. Realistically, anyone would. I don't even know how I could make it up to her. Should I? She probably doesn't even want to see me again for the rest of her life.

"Does that make me rough and crude? Maybe. I wouldn't fight against the idea of being a vulgar woman. I can be crass if people want me to, even if I would rather be more personable. I think that's what I want to be right now."

"… I was plannin' on saying something back to that 'Luvia' gal but I don't really know if it would feel right after all that. I wasn't expecting her to spout all o… Wait.

"Hrmph!"

Baiken's arm arose from her white, loose sleeve and her feet lunged her body to the side before her fingers clasped onto Junko's pale arm. Her eyes peered at Junko's free arm, watching its fingers briefly wiggle in rapid waves before she took a step back and pulled her ensnared arm upward, causing the former to jolt in place and her foot to slide forward in a few milliseconds. Baiken's black coat swung forward along with her tattered sleeve while Junko's strawberry twintails blew behind her, her light blue eyes violently vibrating in place before they locked onto the ronin's lone, pink eye and eyepatch.

"I had a feelin' you still had some stress inside you despite that spiel you went on. There a reason why you threw your hands at me?"

"As my hypothalamus is currently distributing an abundance of cortisol to my nervous system as a result of my psyche remembering my distressing and complicated memories of my sister, I desire an apparatus I can compress so I can reduce the amount of it and possibly counteract it with the production of serotonin. If I were to allow myself to continue remembering these thoughts, there's a possibility my lacrimal glands will produce an excess of tears. I believe it imperative for me to compress a preferably pliable apparatus in order to aid in diminishing these distressing memories. I may resort to pleading in desperation should you choo--"

"ShhhRRSH! Errgh. I figured that's what you were aiming for. I usually don't have anything to say to people like you but given everything you just said…"

Baiken's wide thighs flexed and stretched her toeless greaves into the ground while her grip onto Junko's arm tightened before it swung it down and tossed it away from her. Just as she saw Junko's face and shoulders twist in her peripheral vision, Baiken launched her right shoulder forward and slammed it into the back of her cardigan, sending her blubber into a wobbling fit, loosening a few buttons and pulling down her black, spotted bra far enough to have her chest's fat plunge further away from her clothes.

"Don't try to 'squeeze' out any stress you're feeling if it's severely bothering you. It's better to face it straight on and acknowledge why it bothers you so much. Know what's distressing you and see if you have any way to fix it. That's all I have to say to you for now. Try using me as a stress toy again and the soil's gonna know the way you taste really well."

"Wh… I… Wait. Come back. No. B--But…

"PLEAAAASE come BAAAAAACK! Don't let my thoughts about my sister make me feel worse! I couldn't even do the cool counter I wanted to do against you! Waaaaaaaaaaaaahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

[deviantly-inspired]

This is a very real thing!

In Live Action Role Play, (LARP), that thing where people go into the woods and pretend to be knights who fight dragons or whatever quest they're on(1), folks are spending hours, if not days, in close proximity with people they (presumably) like, gallivanting/exercising in the woods, role playing deeply emotional scenes, and usually are not drinking enough water or eating enough food. It's intense, and, to put it in BDSM terms, a LARP is really just a very extended scene.

Something that very commonly happens after a LARP is that a person will get depressed, tired, irritable, or even snappy. Sometimes, this can last for days. It goes by different names in different LARP groups, two common ones being LARP Drop and Crashing. LARP Drop obviously draws its terminology directly from BDSM spaces here.

So how do we combat this? Again, this depends on the LARP, but some LARPs have official post-game debriefings. Mine did not, but instead my LARP would usually all head out together at a local restaurant and spend time together. We also ran post-game Discord calls for those who couldn't stay for hangouts.

Now, mind you, in my part of the country my LARP is one of the oldest and longest running. The post hangout by itself was usually anywhere between 20-30 people, and that's not including the smaller groups of 5-10 that would go off to different places together apart from the largest group. On average, it would be safe to say that every post-game had upwards of 60-80 people gathering in various sizes to just... be together for longer and do literally what's described above: reassure, rehash, and basically even-keel the hormones. We'd spend days reminding each other to drink more water than normal, and the Discord calls would last hours, sometimes for multiple days in a row if people needed them if they had particularly intense roleplay that event.

Basically: 100 some odd people all partake in various levels social aftercare on a very regular schedule because post-event drop is so common that the need for it naturally evolved into the system my community has in place now. Why is it so surprising that you (generic) might also go through hormone imbalance after using all the serotonin your body can produce in a few hours?

(1) to my fellow LARPers: please do not point out the 3498573 types of LARP there are to me I am well aware that there's as many types, genres, and styles of LARP as there are communities this is an oversimplification for folks who've maybe heard of LARP once from the big bang theory and promptly forgot about it.

googling shit like "why do i feel bad after hanging out with my friends" and all of the answers are either "you need better friends" (i don't; my friends are wonderful) or "your social battery is drained, you need to rest and regain your energy levels" (i don't; i've got tons of energy, it's just manifesting as over-the-top neurotic mania). why is this even happening. it's like some stupid toll i have to pay as a punishment for enjoying myself too much

[unarv]

Can Changing My Diet Really Help with Conditions Like Depression and Anxiety?

When struggling with depression or anxiety, we often look for solutions in therapy or medication. But have you ever wondered, can the food I eat affect my mental health? Many people don’t realize that diet plays a huge role in how we feel emotionally. Let’s explore how simple changes in what you eat can impact your mind. How Does Food Affect the Brain? Think about how you feel after eating a heavy, greasy meal. Do you feel sluggish and tired? Now, imagine how you feel after eating a fresh, home-cooked meal full of vegetables and proteins. Food directly affects your energy levels, mood, and even brain function. The brain needs the right nutrients to work properly. Without them, you may experience brain fog, mood swings, or increased stress. If your body lacks essential vitamins and minerals, your mental health may suffer. But can simply changing your diet make a difference? Can Poor Diet Cause Depression and Anxiety? It’s not just about what you eat, but also what you avoid. Many studies show that ultra-processed foods, sugary snacks, and fast food can increase the risk of depression and anxiety. These foods may cause inflammation in the brain and disrupt the balance of chemicals that control mood. Have you ever felt a sudden mood crash after eating a lot of sugar? This happens because processed foods spike your blood sugar levels, leading to quick bursts of energy followed by crashes that can leave you feeling irritable or drained. What Are the Best Foods for Mental Health? So, if unhealthy foods make things worse, what should you eat instead? Here are some mood-boosting foods that can support your mental well-being: Leafy Greens (Spinach, Kale, Broccoli) – Rich in folate, which helps produce serotonin, the “happiness” chemical. Fatty Fish (Salmon, Sardines, Tuna) – Contains omega-3 fatty acids that reduce inflammation and support brain function. Nuts and Seeds (Almonds, Walnuts, Flaxseeds, Chia Seeds) – Great sources of magnesium, which helps reduce anxiety. Whole Grains (Brown Rice, Quinoa, Oats) – Provide steady energy and improve gut health, which is linked to mood. Probiotic Foods (Yogurt, Kimchi, Kefir) – Support gut bacteria, which play a big role in mental health. Dark Chocolate (at least 70% cocoa) – Contains antioxidants that help reduce stress and improve mood. How Long Does It Take to See Results? This is a common question—how quickly can diet changes improve mental health? While some people notice a difference within days, for most, it takes a few weeks to a couple of months. Your body needs time to absorb nutrients and repair imbalances caused by poor diet. That being said, even small changes can bring improvements. Reducing processed food and eating more whole foods can help you feel better over time. If you're unsure about your progress, consulting the best psychiatrist in Ernakulam can provide expert insights into how diet is influencing your mood. Can Diet Replace Medication or Therapy? While diet can greatly support mental health, it is not always a complete replacement for therapy or medication. Everyone is different, and some people need professional help in addition to dietary changes. However, eating a balanced, nutritious diet can make treatments more effective and improve overall well-being. Final Thoughts So, can changing your diet really help with depression and anxiety? The answer is yes—while it may not be the only solution, it is a powerful tool that can improve mood, energy levels, and overall well-being. By making small, consistent changes to your diet, you can support your mental health naturally. Are you ready to try a healthier approach to feeling better? Start today with small steps, and over time, you may notice a big difference in how you feel. Your mind and body will thank you!

[vernicosa]

Johanna Hedva: Hi Uma! I’m so glad we get to do this conversation, I just adore your mind. Before we get to your project for this web residency, can you tell me what you’ve been devoted to, or obsessed with, or fed by, in these past few months? I’m curious about the general universe you’ve been living in of late.

Uma Breakdown: Hi Johanna! I’m super happy about this, about the residency, what it’s about, being accepted, and getting to work alongside such amazing people! I’m going to try and split my answers to this and the next question carefully, but there is a big overlap between what feeds and obsesses me (very specifically accurate phrasing for the way I work with things I think) on the medium- and long-term, and how I work day to day. So the list of the big things that have been producing all kinds of desire in me would definitely include Leila Taylor’s article from Horror Studies Journal in 2019, with the gloriously innuendo-ed title, »The amorous annihilation of will: An examination of Georges Bataille’s Death & Sensuality through Bryan Fuller’s Hannibal.«

Omg I LIVE for Leila Taylor! This sounds amazing!

This is a paper that I heard about before it was published, and was just full-on beaming at my computer screen thinking about how perfect this was going to be. In the midst of my Ph.D., it slipped off the pile of things I could allocate energy to reading, and there it waited, out of sight. Then last week it came back into my mind, with the perfect timing of animal back-brain processes, and it’s just the radiating stone that is pulling all these other things out of the muck of my studio and making them hover and spark.

A longer-term planet orbiting around me is Hélène Cixous’s book, Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing, particularly its first chapter, »The School of The Dead.« I’ve sat with this text for more than a year now, a text that loops around the relationships between writing and dying. It isn’t really a didactic book, it’s really gentle and funny and joyful, and it’s clear that for Cixous the learning in school isn’t that of the teacher instructing the student, but a series of situations that we put ourselves in, so we can learn. We learn from the journey to school, the threats, the architecture, the mythology, and so on. I have a kind of mirror text to this, which is a translation of Jean Genet’s radio address »The Criminal Child,« and an accompanying essay by the anonymous anarchist collective that translated and published it a few years back.

All of this sounds so fascinating. What I always enjoy about our conversations is that I come away with a long list of things to read and watch. I think of your practice as a kind of whirligig of elements, references, questions, and provocations that range widely: pop culture, horror, TV, video games, theory, criticism, philosophy. You somehow manage to make all of these seemingly disparate sources enmesh with each other in really vibrant and generative ways. I’m curious about what your daily practice looks like: is it daily? What do you practice? What do the muses look like for you? What libations do you keep close while making stuff? Or do you fast? Do you listen to music while you work? Do you dance often?

There’s a lot of other stuff that has been making me happy and excited to do things and keep that serotonin level up to a point where I can risk it with making art. This includes the TV series The Kingdom by Kim Eun-hee, Octavia Butler’s vampire novel, The Fledgling, the video game Dark Souls, and the Ohio anarchist radio show Street Fight Radio.

»Yes! Laughter and dancing feel like things not separate from doom and horror.«

While working on a project it’s a usual tactic of mine to establish a soundtrack. For this residency, I made up a playlist of my favorite doom metal and doom-adjacent music. From recent things from Thou and The Body, back to bands like Acid Bath, Charger, Swans, and Electric Wizard that I would have filled my minidisk player with at college.

Oh wow, I want this soundtrack. I’m wearing my The Body sweatshirt right now as I type.

UB: I actually had a revelatory moment about this last week. This music is not material that meshes with either my process of making art, or with the jumbled worlds I make art about. I don’t know whether it’s about how cathartic that stuff is, or whether it’s just depressive, but it wasn’t letting anything move. I started listening solely to George Clinton and Funkadelic instead, and everything snapped into place.

It might be that post-doom for me is the feedback at the beginning of Free Your Mind and Your Ass Will Follow. It might just be the way all my creative practice is dictated by my erratic energy levels. I think that the latter is probably more likely. My chemical/cognitive/affective strangeness is really volatile. I’m aware of how ridiculous it might sound, but the real core work of my practice as an artist, writer, researcher, or whatever is an economy of joy and happiness. In my experience, putting anything down, like a line on drawing, or the opening of a story, involves an investment of joy. If I don’t have enough in the tank, then the cost of doubt and uncertainty will just bring it down to empty. So a lot of day-to-day is managing those slippery ghosts of things in the world that I find exciting, and the brain-gut-body-world resources of joy needed to pursue them.

I love that and I think I relate. Although of course I love doom and metal and hardcore music maybe more than anything else, and my primary constitutional condition would tend toward the dark and dank, I regularly have to dance, like very regularly, and I’m laughing all the time. My teachers used to get mad at me in class because I was out of control laughing. In an interview I did recently, the interviewer commented that I laugh way more than he would have expected, and that struck me. I think that the reason I have such a capacity, maybe even a super stamina and resilience, for the most dark and difficult parts of life is precisely because I can laugh and dance about it all. I really do think that laughter is the best way to cope with doom.

Yes! Laughter and dancing feel like things not separate from doom and horror. »10,000 Years« by High on Fire is one of the most euphoric pieces of music I can think of, and everything about it is bodily in its laughter. This is probably the kind of metal I like the most, the camp bodily-beyond of »Don’t Burn The Witch,« »Dragonaut,« »Holy Diver,« and anything by the eternal eight-year-old of rock, Glenn Danzig.

Oooh, bitch, yes, camp is my other primary coping mechanism. Like, when it hurts, camp it the fuck up! Maybe that’s another note your work hits that always chimes with me. There’s a sense of play and joy interwoven through the sad and heavy.

Listening to my brain chemistry and current lack of energy, the right kind of affective state for me to deal with this doomed cowboy story artwork is the joyful-sad cowboy song »Biological Speculation« from Funkadelic’s America Eats its Young, rather than say the howling-sad cowboy song of Dead Moon’s »Dagger Moon.«

My day-to-day practice is about efficiently using my joy. I can’t work when I’m sad. I enjoy being sad, I like a lot of things that make me really sad, but I can’t work in that condition. The machine of myself mostly produces garbage when it’s sad, and worse, it doesn’t have the resources to perceive whether what it was produced is garbage or not. So even when I write something that is about annihilating doom, it has to be from a position of joy.

I think this is probably why I work with that whirligig of bits and pieces: there’s secret potential resources of euphoria in a bunch of things and their interrelationships at a given time.

Mmm, that��s deep. It reminds me of how almost every time I read my tarot, I pull a card for the position of what would be »my special, secret skill,« like a resource that will help me in the situation—and I always get the quote-unquote worst cards there: Death, The Tower. Like, these are actually skills that I can cultivate in myself.

For whatever reason, this makes me think of how much of your practice involves drawing, and specifically diagrams. Can you talk about that?

My working practice is diagrammatic, quite literally. I produce diagrams as not so much planning, but as a kind of unstable creature to collaborate with. For various reasons, my medium-term memory and working memory are both shot, so I write everything down or draw something to mark it in space as best I can if it’s resistant to translation to language. I collect these things together; a bit of a film, an affective register of a piece of music, an event, a word because I’m excited by them, filled with joy by them, and feel there is something about their relationship to each other that could go somewhere. I don’t question why, I put them down in the diagram. The act of drawing the diagram pulls in or creates new elements – i.e., there was only room on the page to note that piece down in that top right corner there, which puts it next to this other thing that I hadn’t considered it in relation to. So this constellation of joy and desire gets built and edited, and that’s basically my collaborator for the given project I’m working on. The diagram’s power is that it’s unstable. It isn’t a hard mnemonic trigger, or a clean translation. It’s volatile and active, it’s different every time you look at it, but it retains some kind of coherence as a mob. It’s a thing to be divined from, which is why I wanted to talk about it specifically with you, because I know this is something you have a strong relationship to as well.

Yeah, I like to think of my practice in terms of divination, because I like to think of any kind of language as divination. And it’s the instability and failure of language that is most exciting to me about this proposal. Like, the propensity for incoherence is, to me, the part that gets us into the mystical.

Do you want to introduce us to the project you made for this web residency?

Okay, so like with the diagrams and tactics of joy, I have a system, or habit, or superstition around discussing artworks. I can’t describe things I’m working on or have just completed. I have to have a »one work buffer« – there needs to be a full completed artwork between what I’m working on right now, and the most recent artwork I can talk about. The reason is things that are too recent and too vulnerable can fall apart if I mess with them before they get a bit alienated from me (I need that aforementioned poor-resolution memory of mine to completely lose grip so I can look at this properly and say, hey, that’s what it is). I’ll scrub all that joy out of anything still being worked on right now.

What I can say is, what I proposed for this residency as the end result (a story, that was rearticulated as a diagram, that was then rearticulated as a story, on and on) clicked when I understood it instead as a process. What I’m producing is a video game of text, speech audio, and images, that loops and branches and repeats. It is concerned with orbits of moons, and hiding from the sun, Sedgwick’s Gothic image of men engaged in homophobic pursuit rearticulated as healing, reparative, generous love. Hannibal and Will’s mutual euphoric care.

So cool. One of the things that I wanted to foreground in this web residency is accessibility, making sure that online works are accessible, and I’m curious to know more about how you approached that. It’s the complexities and questions that accessibility brings up that I think both you and I are both invested in and pleasantly surprised and confused by. For instance, I’m very interested in this conundrum of discussing or describing artworks, and so much of accessibility on the web—like alt-text and open captioning, for example—proposes to be descriptive. Like, “here is a description of the thing.” Like, alt-text describes in words what is happening in an image, but as anyone who’s ever written alt-text knows, you immediately run into a huge mess of questions about how linguistic description totally fails the visual, but also adds all these other points of entry and layers of meaning to it, and this begs the question of the relationship between not only the linguistic and the visual, but of the description and interpretation. And of course, there are all these indications that reveal the position of the writer of the alt-text – are they foregrounding certain elements of the image over others, and if so, why? As a writer, I find all of these complexities to be generative and inspiring; they produce new frames of meaning and interpretation for me in ways that make art start to shimmer, but I think that’s because language for me is always shape-shifting and promiscuous and slippery.

Can you speak to this a little bit? How did questions of accessibility form your project? Did you arrive at any conclusions that could be helpful, even if they are tentative?

I like accounts of art that are themselves art. Writing about a thing not as an attempt to capture it, but seeing art as a provocation to create a new provocation. Something I’ve thought about a lot this last year is how to build accessibility through that approach. So alt-text is a really clear concrete example: I make an image, and that needs a text, but I’m trying to make the text do what the image was trying to do, while being aware that image and text aren’t the same. The alt-text is likely to have something to ground it to the image, perhaps make some reference to its content or colors, but it isn’t primarily a description, it’s a parallel process.

What has been really useful about this process is connecting it to a general approach of doing the same thing again and again from different angles. A habit I picked up a while ago is sometimes when I get in a bind writing something, I try instead to write about the attempt of writing, either as it was (hard, impossible, painful) or some other way (perfect, impossible, bizarre). A frustrating story where I’ve totally lost control of the emotions I’m wrangling with gets reduced to key points, in a much faster punchier form that often becomes an element in something new (the emotion is kept and the object is changed, or the object is kept and the creator speaking is changed). Doing the same thing again but alienating it enough that it can be seen properly.

I do the same thing with non-text artwork, the process of making and exhibiting an installation turns out to be the diagram for something later. Something to be divined from, perhaps repeatedly.

Writing is slippery, so a response to that (a stress-reducing response?) is to be adaptable. We can treat reading, writing, meaning, affect, brain-bits, body-bits, as fragile and finicky collaborators, unknowable but loved. The play of collaboration continuing happily is far more important and delicate than any one partner getting control. (I feel this keenly right now, I have erased and rewritten this reply to you so many times this last week, trying to keep the frame of play alive.)

Accounting for the thing in text can become a creative process. Writing the account of an artwork that isn’t present doesn’t have to be tied to that artwork, there doesn’t need to be any loyalty there. The text can be a new thing, something better. I think we can’t help but do that anyway; like you said about foregrounding, we always recompose, so why not use this amazing opportunity? The alt-text could focus entirely on the affective state that the image was concerned with, making the reader the subject and describing their emotions. Equally, the voice of the alt-text doesn’t need to aim at invisibility, perhaps the most effective way to deliver the content is through an unreliable narrator.

I thought about this when we recently did the reading group on Minerva the Miscarriage of the Brain. Your wonderful book is full of text accounts of past artworks. I know you wrote that book over a fairly long period of time, but I don’t feel like these text accounts are attempting to replace those long-gone performances. They read like artworks that are made of words and pictures that are re-approaching some ideas that were previously approached through the medium of some friends in the desert. This is obviously my reading of the book! But the slipperiness is what immediately got me excited about it. Words do something different from things that aren’t words.

That’s exactly what was most exciting to me about the works in Minerva! I think that book is a document of how, for a decade, I was totally mesmerized by the paradox of performance, that a performance is never just this one point in time and space, but that it continues to live and shape-shift: it exists in each audience member who saw it, it exists in the gossip and stories they tell about it, it comes to exist for people who weren’t there at that original moment but who are reading or hearing about it later, and this just keeps going and going, so that, exactly as you say, the accounts of it, the art, the performance, are themselves art and performance.

So this idea of accessibility not as translation but as trying again and accepting difference basically became the core of my artwork for this residency. I tried to produce the artwork in the most lightweight manner possible, entirely in HTML so it will (I really hope) function with whatever mechanisms are used to operate a web browser. Within this lightweight framework, a story plays out over and over, the same story each time, but with slippage between how it is told. There is slippage between iterations, and between image and text, and while that unreliability means the story isn’t fixed or certain, it’s the same story whether you only look at the images, or exclusively use a browser text to speech plug-in, play only one iteration of the story, or twenty of its variations.  

I can’t wait to see it.

[lovejustforaday]

2024 Year End List - #7

Micah. - Micah Dailey-White

Main Genres: Synth Pop, Indie Pop, Chillwave

A decent sampling of: Synth Funk, Sophisto-Pop, Neo-Psych, Shoegaze, Dance Pop, Lo-Fi Indie

My most esoteric pick of 2024 is a record by an artist who mostly hails from the overcrowded and overstimulated world of TikTok.

Micah Dailey-White is a moderately successful American TikToker comedian whose other passion is making SoundCloud music with a very soft, warm and fuzzy touch.

As an aside, I genuinely like this guy's comedic persona on an app I otherwise mostly avoid. His sensibilities remind me of the days of when Vine was popular (and existed), albeit not as cruel or vulgar. He even has his own tongue-in-cheek TikTok parody of Fantano reviewing his own record, where he does a pretty faithful bang-on impression. How could you not love this guy?

It sounds like the dude has been through hell and high water during the lead up to making this record. He had to crowdfund not just this project, but basically his life about a year ago, as Micah was homeless for an extended period of time shortly before the release of this debut full-length record. The fact that this thing even exists is somewhat of a miracle in itself.

Micah. is a record of just pure serotonin, even as it weaves tales of heartbreak and unrequited love in equal measure with songs of joy and fulfillment. Micah very much has the purity at heart and unapologetic "adorkableness" to pull off these kind of songs. This could soundtrack some kind of cozy 2D coming-of-age RPG with some of its MIDI-esque retro gaming synths, and diverse variety of melodic lo-fi genre interpretations combined with tonal mood swings between youthful angst and ecstasy.

True to his appearance on the cover art, Micah is a guy who gives off a humble, introspective energy in his music. I genuinely feel not only his passion for making music, but a deep sense of humanity in his lyrics. I can't find a whole lot of information on the record itself since it was such a small release, but it seems this was all or mostly self-produced, and Micah's the kind of artist I just have to root for.

"Midnight Walker." is a sophisti-pop serenade, incorporating compositional influences from Dominican bachata music with its güira and bongos beat, along with its suave vocal trills. Despite its flashiness, the production maintains the album's humble bedroom lo-fi vibes, capturing wistful bedtime fantasies recalling the story of an elusive seductress.

"Crush." is sonic bright neon lights directly against your eyeballs. This song beams itself directly into your skull with its giddy, infectious lovestruck melody. Fills me up with so much joy just listening to this track, and its not even two full minutes long. I'm always a sucker for songs that can really capture the essence of your heart fluttering when that special someone walks by.

"Why Do You Take Me So Serious?" is an airy lo-fi indie rock ballad that matches a hand-in-pockets, head-hung-low, walking-alone-out-in-the-cold-night kinda vibe. Those icy synth pads belong in a Cure song, and this whole track just oozes the poetic end of a teenage romance.

The penultimate "One on One." is a beautifully contained little dance track with an absolutely killer synth lead riff, and some nice squelchy synth funk bass. Headband Henny's rap feature really elevates the vibes. Feels like I'm walking on air with little magic sparkles flying out of my sneakers. Such an insanely tight little pick-me-up of a tune.

I will say this - dude's GOTTA start making some longer songs. So much of this record is full of songs that are about to climax and then just finish. Sure, a few of them work better as shorter songs (Especially "Crush", which feels like a tiny burst of energy), but tracks like "Self-destructive" and "Lust." would've absolutely benefited from another minute.

But what is on here is frigging spectacular, especially for such a small DIY project and debut full-length LP from a 21 year old. You can tell so much love was put into this record; a real passion project, and its a bitter reminder that, under capitalism, many brilliant artists struggle to scrimp by and get noticed while mediocrity with proximity to wealthy connections is often rewarded.

But I digress. Mica. is a a remarkably endearing and very sincere record. If you find a way to purchase the release online (as I currently haven't, found the merch store tho), I highly recommend that you do that. This young man is definitely going places if he continues to receive the support needed to fund his passion.

8/10

Highlights: “Crush.”, “One on One.”, “Midnight Walker.”, “Why Do You Take Me So Serious?”, “Freaks.”

For fans of: Currents by Tame Impala RoseGold by Kitty Cupid Deluxe by Blood Orange

[candy-floss-crazy]

With a scientific name translating as 'Food Of The Gods', having been eaten for centuries and a taste loved by most people, chocolate is actually a fascinating substance. 1 Its First Shipment Was Mistaken For Sheep Poo We might well have enjoyed the delights of chocolate earlier in this country, if it wasn't for a case of mistaken identity. A Spanish shipment of goods was seized off the coast in the 16th century. But when they opened the sacks of cocoa beans they were mistaken for sheep poo and destroyed. 2 Chocolate, Along With Coffee, Was Once Associated With Rebellion King Charles felt threatened by the coffee and chocolate shops in 1660's England. It had became a drink of the intellectuals and radicals, and he felt they would be meeting to plan subversion. Spain and France didn't have this problem as there it was reserved as a drink for the privileged. The insurance house Lloyd's of London, actually started in a coffee shop. 3 Many Of Our Favourite Chocolate Bars Are 100 Years Old Cadbury's Flake, Fruit and Nut, and the crunchy bar date from the 1920's. Mars Bar, Milky Way, KitKat, Maltesers, Aero and Smarties from the 1930's. This was the golden era of chocolate creativity. An interesting fact, is that the much loved Cadbury's Cream egg, was actually a J.S. Fry's product. It wasn't branded Cadbury until much later. 4 Chocolate Consumption Dates Back 5000 Years Archaeological evidence suggests that people from the Mayo-Chinchipe civilisation were ingestion cacao based products some 3000 years B.C. The Maya poeple were evidently consuming it as a drink between 250 and 850A.D. And it was very popular with the legendary Aztecs. I suppose it was their version of quaffing champagne whilst on a day out at the races. A good cup of cocoa and a few human hearts being cut out. 5 White Chocolate Was Actually A Children's Medicine In Switzerland in the 1930's, doctors tried to improve the health of young patients by giving them vitamin enriched milk. But the older kids thought milk babyish. The addition of cocoa butter resulted in the accidental invention of white chocolate. 6 The Claim That Chocolate Is An Aphrodisiac Is False Damn, I always liked this one. The Aztecs may have been the first on record to draw a link between the cocoa bean and an increase in sexual desire. Montezuma was reputed to have consumed the bean in large amounts to fuel his romantic trysts. There are actually two chemicals in chocolate that do have an effect on sexual desire, tryptophan and phenylethylamine. The first is a building block of serotonin that sexual arousal chemical. The second a stimulant released when people fall in love. Sadly scientists reckon that the amount in chocolate is so low as to have no discernible impact. 7 The Largest Cup Of Hot Chocolate Ever Made Was 1059.4 Gallons It was produced to celebrate Three Kings Day and was achieved by the Municipio de Uruapan (Mexico), in Uruapan, Michoacán, Mexico. It contained 600kg of locally grown chocolate. I bet that had enough tryptophan in to gets things rising. 8 The Most Expensive Chocolate Dessert The Frrrozen Haute Chocolate, which costs an eye watering £12,000, was added to the menu New Yorks Serendipity 3 restaurant. Made in partnership with a luxury jeweller, the sundae uses a fine blend of 28 cocoas. Including 14 of the world’s most expensive. It is then decorated with 5 g of edible 23-carat gold, served in a goblet lined with edible gold. The base of the goblet is an 18-carat gold bracelet with 1 carat of white diamonds. The dessert is eaten with a gold and diamond spoon, which they graciously allow you to take home. I should bloody well think they do at the price of a small car. I would want to be spoon fed it by Heidi Klum for that price. 9 Melts In The Mouth Chocolate is the only edible substance to melt around 32°C , just below normal human body temperature. That’s the reason chocolate melts in your mouth. The scientific name given to the tree that chocolate comes from is Theobroma cacao, means “food of the gods.” The smell of chocolate supposedly increases theta brain waves, which triggers relaxation. Chocolate has over 600 flavor compounds, while red wine has 200, it is actually quite a complex substance. It takes approximately 400 beans to make a single pound of chocolate. 10 We Offer A Range Of Hot Chocolate Carts For Your Event From our Victorian themed wedding carts, to a horse box for those outdoor events, you can have a range of themed offerings. All with our range of delicious drinking chocolate. Choose from everyone's favourite Cadbury's to the upmarket Charbonnel Et Walker. All served with cream, marshmallows, sprinkles and a range of syrups to add extra flavour. Read the full article

[bisluthq]

Thank you!! And sorry that I ended that message kind of abruptly. I had somewhere to be, but yeah I feel really good about it. She told me to stop looking up stuff because I think she thought it wasn’t helping, but I actually think it helps me. Knowing why I’m the way that I am and how to deal with that makes me feel like I have a bit more control over it. I also know it takes people years to get diagnosed with any type of neurodivergence so I was expecting to be ignored on that front tbh. All in all, not happy about the meds because I wanted to get off the Xanax that my doctor had prescribed, and she agreed that I shouldn’t be taking that, but then she said I will need other meds. I have seen a lot of people get off anxiety meds so I was hoping to start working towards that goal instead of changing to a different set of meds, but they might work better! I feel like Xanax makes me very tired but doesn’t really stop the anxiety, it’s like it slows down every part of my brain except the one it should be. I’m also just not a fan of taking anything, not because I’m against medicine or anything like that, but because I don’t want to take something unless it’s completely necessary. I will of course take whatever I’m prescribed and listen to the psychiatrist but I’m hoping it’s something I will be able/allowed to stop taking at some point, even if it’s in a few years when everything is maybe more under control. But I’m feeling optimistic!

yea look again do what’s best for you and experiment tbh. see what this psychiatrist suggests/prescribes. Again, only you’ll know what’s best for you. I also do think - and this is going to be something only you can answer and only with sufficient experimentation though - that if you need meds then you need meds. I can only confidently speak for me right but I need meds because my brain is just very bad at processing serotonin, right, like it doesn’t want to be happy and when it’s not happy it’s not regular levels of “I guess this sucks” unhappy, it tricks me into thinking all sorts of dark ass rubbish and makes me very fucking dysfunctional. I read a book that I won’t recommend about happiness and it talked about how sadness is a natural emotion/state and modern society is too obsessed with being happy and all sorts of great artists produced their best art while sad and my takeaway was like 1) a bunch of great sad artists have killed themselves so idk if that’s really the flex this moron who wrote the book believes it to be 2) if I could be as productive as those people when I’m in an episode maybe I would indeed sit with my sadness but like when I have a bad episode I… don’t function. My brain needs help to achieve base levels of human functioning when it’s doing its little misery episode. Obviously it needs the right kind of help, and I think I could and perhaps one day will find natural alternatives to SSRIs, and lifestyle changes can and do help, but fundamentally idk how much woo woo shit I would need to do in order for my brain to have regular people’s levels of serotonin without help. That said, I’ve also tried like seven kinds of SSRIs and combos of SSRI + anti anxiety medications + just anti anxiety medication + hormone/thyroid medication combos with it all before I found the combo I’m on now and I AM pairing it with lifestyle right like lots of exercise and sensible dietary choices and meditation but I can’t think how much running and meditation I would need to do in order for the serotonin to like… work lol. And also maybe this stops working again idk that’s why I journal a lot too to like monitor this shit because I don’t like going to the bad place ykwim? I want to stay out of it. Anyway.

I think of it as like if I had T2 diabetes right I’d take medication for it AND ALSO PAIR IT WITH LIFESTYLE CHOICES. I wouldn’t take the meds and drink sugary drinks and eat white bread and be all shocked pickachu face that my insulin is still fucked and my blood sugar levels are doing funny things and I feel like shit but I also wouldn’t stop taking meds because like… if I had T2 diabetes then I’d know my body is bad at producing insulin, just like my real body is bad at producing happy hormones. That said, some people DO manage T2 purely with lifestyle and natural alternatives and again like do what’s best for YOU and what feels right and only you would know that.

Again, best of luck for this and all I can say is tbh you know best. And do your research.

[01zfan]

halcyon

guitarist!wonbin x bassist!reader | 13k words

after an insane…awful…damn near DIABOLICAL wait i present you with the most insane writing i have ever done. why i decided to go so hard for a wonbin fic is beyond me but he just evokes something particularly crazy within me.

Halcyon makes music like the album Tranquility Base Hotel + Casino by Arctic Monkeys. this takes place during the 80’s and mentions several places in the world’s rock scene in regards to this time. some songs that remind me of this couple are cry for me by magdalena bay, dare by gorillaz, heavy by powers, i’ll bet you by the jackson 5, drugs by charli xcx, and had ten dollaz by cherry glazerr.

contains: toxic relationship, physical violence (reader fights a girl, several fights during rock shows), infidelity, semi-public sex, fingering, pain kink drug mention, addictive behaviors, non-linear storytelling, it is referenced that the reader does something to "get rid of" other band members, part of this is in eunseok’s perspective then it switches

rock the house masterlist

Wonbin held after concert rituals very close to his heart. When the post-show adrenaline attempted to crash down on him and steal his serotonin like a thief in the night he had a few things lined up to keep the good feeling going. He would be on stage with the guitar still in his hands and before the last riff tore through the venue and while people���s screams still rang in his ears, Wonbin was already setting his eyes on his next dopamine rush. 

His following activities for the night post-concert goes as follows, in no particular order:

Sex.

Drugs.

Trashing hotel rooms.

Chain smoking an entire pack of American Spirits.

He gritted his teeth as he brought his hands down the neck of his instrument. A chord rang through the venue as he remembered he was on his second strike—after the previous three—of ignoring the groupie ban. As he walked off the stage he remembered that he was completely out of drugs, and when he ran his fingers over his engraved initials on the side of his metal cigarette case he came to the realization it was lighter than usual.

“Fuck.” 

Wonbin cursed under his breath, already knowing what was waiting for him inside. The venue staff and roadies moved around him as he stood completely still, looking down at his very last American Spirit. The sound of people running around and making sure equipment was being put in the right place drowned out completely around Wonbin. It was just him, the lone cigarette, and the wave of depression getting closer and closer to crashing down on him. Stray bits of tobacco slid from the metal casing and fell until it landed between his black heeled boots. He sighed to himself and clamped the case hard with a singular hand. The case almost sprung back open from the force. A cheap gift from a former lover that was already falling apart. He swore he had more Spirits.

“I’m going outside.” Wonbin spoke from the side of his mouth the cigarette didn’t occupy.

He didn’t care to look over his shoulder or wait for a reply. He’s sure Shotaro and Sion yelled at him to be back on the bus in thirty minutes or he’d send Wendy out there to kick his ass. He only waved a dismissive hand over his shoulder before heading to the door, using the side of his body to open it while he lit his cigarette.

Wonbin didn’t like Wendy too much, she insisted on managing the band like they were a professional act instead of a bunch of sleazy assholes who could hold a tune. Wonbin much preferred starting fights at shows and picking up girls to break their hearts the next day. Now that Wendy was around—and the major record label that was producing their next album—Halcyon was trying to be more classy. That meant no more young ladies in the hotel rooms, no more instigating physical confrontations at shows, and no more illicit drugs or illegal substances. Wonbin was barely able to sneak underneath Wendy’s radar. She watched him like a hawk, the only moments of solace he got was when he’d walk around the venue to take a smoke break. He was lucky she didn’t have much of a taste for the smell of nicotine. Wonbin would never be the one to tell her that a cigarette might help loosen the gigantic stick she had shoved up her ass.

He walked past the venue staff into the muggy night. Gainesville Florida, a disgusting rainy mess of a city that made you feel like you were choking on the humidity. The vibrant rock scene didn’t make up for the thick air that made everyone feel like they were swallowing smoke. Traveling the world was alot less fulfilling than he thought it’d be. Not every destination was a vibrant city with exotic nightlife and attractions. Sometimes it was in the armpit of a country, right in the bible belt wedged between two conservative cities. 

But this wasn’t all bad. Despite being a pessimist, Wonbin knew that shows paid the studio bills, it paid everything. The weather also couldn’t have been too muggy, because he still insisted on putting his cigarette to his lips and inhaling the fumes, even if the fog rested over his body like a damp weighted blanket. 

Wonbin breathed in until embers ignited and he felt that sting in the back of his throat. He should make this last American Spirit last—he really should—but the more he realized this was his last vice for God knows how long he couldn’t stop himself from taking prolonged puff after prolonged puff.

He wandered away from the venue while eating his cigarette, heading towards the side of a building right next to a shady alleyway. He was grateful that word travelled he wasn’t kind to stragglers after the show. He was left alone as he leaned against the wet brick of the building, sputtering up phlegm from singing, the cigarette, and the heavy air around him. Despite the pain he continues to smoke his last dwindling source of dopamine, already imagining the unbearable asshole he’s going to be in the tour bus.

“Looking for something?”

Wonbin looked past the brick wall down the alleyway. It was entirely too foggy here too. Between the shadows of the building and the night Wonbin could barely make out who that was calling to him. The fans after a show never gave Wonbin that much space, and his old flings would’ve been in his face in seconds. His mind briefly went to his dealer, his promise to keep him supplied by his jockeys across America. Wendy made sure to scare them away and to let Wonbin know in the most polished way possible.

“The young professionals that supply your musings will no longer be visiting Halcyon on tour. Any reimbursements will be settled upon our arrival back in New York.”

“Who are you?” 

Wonbin spoke to the shadowy figure at the end of the alleyway. If he knew any better he would’ve never came down this unlit path by himself. He was a rockstar in vintage leather Prada, denim Mugler, and custom made snakeskin boots. Despite his affinity for conflict and violence Wonbin was unfortunately all talk, and he was sure his height and slim frame showcased that. He was at risk of being rundown and not a single soul would know; not a single bodyguard, member of his entourage, nothing. 

But Wonbin was more aware of the fact that it was harder to score these days than it was to die, and if he were to die in an alleyway attempting to do a drug deal atleast he’d go out doing what he loved. So he took another step towards the shadowy figure, his heel clicking on the pavement as he tried adjusting his eyesight in the night. He was going to send Taesan (or was his name Dongmin?—that doesn’t matter) a bouquet of roses. Maybe even name a song on the next album about him. If his jockey would just cut to the chase and emerge from the shadows to give him his vice. Wonbin was already reaching in the inner pocket of his jacket for his emergency drug deal money when he took another step forward.

When the shadow stayed leaned against the wall, Wonbin took another step forward. He even cleared his voice to project it further and moved his cigarette to the corner of his mouth in an effort to speak clearly.

“Who are you?” Wonbin repeated. 

Finally the figure kicked off from the wall and walked towards him. Wonbin didn’t care enough to take a step backwards, even when the figure still said nothing. For a moment fear flashed through Wonbin’s mind at the thought of the person really being a murderer—or worse—a cop. He imagined red and blue illuminating the dark alleyway and the figure would emerge with a badge reading him his Miranda Rights. 

As soon as Wonbin imagined all the terrible endings to this situation the fear and panic was gone. Instead of hearing sirens Wonbin heard chatter of people passing by. Instead of seeing a cop he watched a woman emerge from the shadows, heels clicking against the pavement with each step.

He never remembered the jockey’s ever being a girl. 

Wonbin’s even swore his dealer went on a tirade about how unreliable women are when it comes to drug dealing. Something about how pussy is worst and most addictive drug on the planet, how it always complicates things between the buyer and seller, and some other borderline misogynistic rhetoric. 

(Wonbin found himself nodding along with his eyes trained on the drugs in his dealers hand. Maybe it was a Pavlov reaction to get his drugs, maybe he actually agreed with the points he was making. He never claimed to be a feminist. He is a rockstar, first and foremost.) 

Instantly Wonbin tilted his head in amusement. He recognized your face immediately, he had gotten used to seeing you in the crowd of every show. You were what he called a front row regular, singing along to every song and starting the mosh pits. Wonbin watched you start your fair share of fights, pushing someone into the crowd with a smile on your face as you watched the chaos unfold. Despite being burdensome to the security and wellbeing of others, you were never ousted. Wonbin even got the feeling that you were revered in community, not that he ever cared enough to check. He just knew that you were there in the very beginning, when Halcyon didn’t have a name and it was just him Shotaro, and Sion scouring punk bars looking to make a quick buck.

Wonbin didn’t know you were the type to lurk in alleys after a show. For the most part he believed you were one of his few normal fans. As normal as any fan can be that follows the band across state lines just to see the same show over and over again. 

You two had shared eye contact plenty of times. With Wonbin front and center and you in the crowd, it was bound to happen. But each time he gave you that look that said to meet him after the show you were always nowhere to be found. Each time the lights came on you’d disappear like a figment of his imagination, turning into dust until you materialized at his next show. 

Your aversion of meeting him backstage had him peg you for the scared type, but you leaned against the side of the building and titled your head. Wonbin wasn’t sure if you were trying to emulate his calm demeanor or if it was your truth; he was still intrigued all the same. 

“Who are you?” Wonbin asked for a third time, the tone of his voice saccharine as he did a shameless once over of you.

He leaned against the side of the building like you did, his hands let go of the money in his pocket and instead rested inside gently. He let go of the sweaty crumpled money and went to his cigarette, pulling it from his mouth.

When you didn’t speak, Wonbin blew the smoke in your face. A cloud of poisonous smog and you weren’t affected one bit. You let it breeze past you with a smirk before reaching in your back pocket. You revealed the substance like it was the bridge of a song, and held it up in the air in front of Wonbin’s face. You still didn’t say a word and even with the offering in your hand Wonbin’s eyes stayed on you. For the first time in God knows how long, Wonbin felt indifferent to substance. The far off words of his drug dealer played in his mind as he stared into your eyes, so innocent and contradictory of what was in your hand.

“Just a fan is all.” You said.

You jostled the substance in your hand for emphasis, like a human showing a dog its treats. Wonbin’s tail would’ve started wagging if he had one when he realized just how much was in the bag.

“Where’d you get that?” Wonbin asked.

“Some weirdo was just here.” You looked to your hand, feigning confusion. “He said this was for you.” You said.

He was already five minutes past Shotaro’s time warning, pulling you from the shadows ate up a majority of his smoke break. The image of his band running around the venue looking for him was fleeting, but he swore he could hear the sound of Wendy calling out his name. She imagined her scouring the streets looking for a groupie or a junkie asking if they knew of his whereabouts. They had a different state to be in tomorrow but Wonbin didn’t care, his interest was piqued by the baggie and you. You didn’t seem to scare as easily as the other girls. You kept eye contact with him, Wonbin could even see the gleam in your eyes like you were considering taking the substance for yourself.

“Why’d he give it to you?” Wonbin asked, still keeping his eyes on you.

“I may have done something for him.” You said.

Wonbin raised his eyebrows. Less than a year as a rockstar and he already had someone willing to do nefarious things just for him to know their name. Did you dirty your hands for him? Were your stockings already ripped or was that done recently? Was your makeup smudged on purpose and was your unkept hair intentional, or the byproduct of something much more demeaning?

Wonbin put his cigarette out on the brick wall and stuck his hands deeper in the tight leather pockets of his pants. Only then did he fully focus on the baggie. He felt his mouth water at the sight, that tug to do bad things deep in his heart. The adrenaline crash was creeping behind him but you were a massive brick wall he was hurtling straight towards. He reached for the bag and grazed your hand purposefully. 

You didn’t even flinch. He smiled to himself.

“What did you do for him?” He traveled his hand down your arm slowly. His knuckles grazed over the fabric of your denim, tracing the stitching all the way up to your shoulder. When he made it to your neck is when he noticed the blossoming mark, already preparing to be angry in the morning. Wonbin looked from the mark to your face and tilted his head to the side. “Can’t imagine you paid him for this shitty stuff.” He said.

His other hand stuck out in front of him as his hand made it to your cheek. You didn’t chase after his fleeting touch, your lips didn’t part in silent want and your eyes didn’t flutter shut. You were stoic as he touched you, impervious to the move that usually had girls falling to his feet. Wonbin suddenly didn’t feel like just drugs tonight. The adrenaline was building back over his body at the sight of you not scaring easily. You refused to give in, you didn’t even put the baggie in his hand. You opened it yourself, putting the white powder on your long pointed acrylic nail before brining it under Wonbin’s nose. 

He looked down to your nail then up to you. The tension built over his body tenfold, his hands retreated back to his pockets like he was debating on indulging himself. He heard Shotaro yell clearly now, and Wendy’s angry quick steps echoing beyond the alley. 

“I can show you, if you’d like.” 

Eunseok looked away from the alley between the two buildings and pressed his head to the steering wheel. The creases of his forehead are smoothed by the ragged synthetic cover of the wheel from years of use. he continues to rub his forehead against the covering just to feel something. He does it to stop himself from falling asleep, hoping that the repetitive motion can act as the rest he should be getting right now.

Eunseok thinks his job should pay him better. If he made wage proportional to the amount of work he does he wouldn’t have to drive around this disaster on wheels. When he closes his eyes for too long he’s forced to remember that he’s one bad ride away from breaking down on the side of the road—or worse in the middle of traffic. He remembers all the times the engine stalled on him and he had to call his bestfriend to come to his aide. Each time Sungchan gave his car a jump or pushed it to get a running start he commented on the abysmal state of Eunseok’s vehicle. He had heard this thing is barely drivable and you are a danger to yourself a million times. Eunseok couldn’t even deny it, he knew his friend was right. He couldn’t even turn up the music in the car without it coming out fractured through the blown out speakers. everything was muffled and the words were crackling fuzz, like pop rocks were in his sound system.

The music crackling through his speakers pulled him from wallowing in his financial situation. He lifted his head and his hand went to the sound dial on instinct. He focused on changing the volume using the tiniest adjustments on the knob. He always tries for the perfect spot on each song, because of course it’s different for each once. Every three minutes Eunseok’s fingers twist and turn the knob. Ironically it takes have the song to find the middle ground, where it’s not too quiet or entirely too loud. 

When Eunseok finds the spot he sighs to himself, forehead going back to his worn steering wheel. He drums along to the beat this time, trying to get himself up and to clear everything else from his mind. 

Eunseok tries not to think about his nerves, or the way he’s going to weave between two cop cars to get inside of the hotel. He thought it was torture surpassing a line of concertgoers to interview the artists. The exclusivity that gave him a dopamine rush turned into a stomachache when all eyes went on him. Their anger was almost always misplaced, mad at someone who wasn’t even taking up space in the general admission nor who was responsible for them waiting in line. But Eunseok knew it was pointless to argue with fans whose eyes were filled with bloodlust visions of the barricade. He only kept his head down and smiled awkwardly to the security before flashing his press badge. 

Eunseok looks up from his spot in the parking lot to the hotel. Two flashing cop cars, neither of them make a sound but they sit in front of the door to block the entrance. Only people out, no one gets in he hears one of the police officers say. There’s a huddle of them talking to someone, his view of them is blocked by their vests and wide stances. On the other side of Eunseok’s car people are gathered in the public area. They are lined on the sidewalk, standing on their tip toes and leaning their bodies like meerkats. Eunseok recognizes the reporters, they view the front of the hotel through the viewfinder of their cameras, just waiting for the perfect shot. Some people are even craning their necks to look into the fishbowl Eunseok calls a car, he can already hear the whispers and fizzled out excitement when they realize he’s a nobody.

He would take a concert over this any day. He would gladly walk past a line of hecklers than be caught in the middle of this. But the clock in his car that is perpetually an hour behind tells him that he told Wonbin he’d be in his hotel room. The ground forming on the outskirts of the parking lot only gets bigger.

Eunseok reaches across the center console of his car to open the glove compartment. The door to the small storage drops open and he reaches in deep to pull out the pack of cigarettes. He smiles when he finds the last one in the pack and sees he has just enough time and a long enough walk to smoke it down to the butt.

Eunseok rolls down the window of his car using the hand crank because of course it only opens from the outside and of course his window is not automatic. He opens the front door and gets out, closing it behind him with his foot. Both of Eunseok’s hands are preoccupied, one blocks the wind and the other tries to ignite the lighter. it’s annoying, and just like everything else in his life the lighter fails to work. he shakes it, he hits the bottom of it against his thigh, he even tilts it upside down hoping to shake up just enough of the leftover fluid to create a flame. He feels his thumb going raw from working the tiny black gear before he finally admits defeat. 

Eunseok goes through the open window of his car muttering about all his bad luck under his breath. he opens up his loose center console and tosses in the lighter before continuing to dig around. he goes through napkins, loose change, and the spare key that Sungchan swore was in Eunseok’s car. he slips the key into his pocket and reminds himself to hide it inside of the apartment later. 

One after taking everything out of the center console does Eunseok find his box of matches, deep in the bottom corner where it was forgotten for god knows how long. regardless, he is so happy to find the matches he almost kisses the flimsy box. 

He backs out of the car through the open window and opens the matchbox. He sees three perfect matches and nearly cries from happiness. His nicotine addiction induced by stress continues to fight for another day.

Eunseok is sure he looks insane to beyond the parking lot. He sticks out like a sore thumb, wearing a business casual outfit to an indie rock bands possible arrest. He tries to salvage what little confidence he has left by leaning on the hood of his car and striking the match. He smiles to himself inwardly when he’s able to successfully light the end on the second try.

Eunseok had always made the deal with himself to let his insecurities run wild until he reaches the end of his cigarette. so as he pulls in the toxic fumes that still burn his throat he lets himself think about how ridiculous he looks. He thinks about his feeble attempt at seeming professional in this scratchy cheap blazer and how uncomfortable his faux suede boots are. They were on the clearance rack in the women’s section, marked down from the already ridiculously cheap price. Eunseok thinks about the people that are looking for their rockstars and instead find a journalist smoking a cigarette in the middle of the night. They must wonder why he gets the privilege to be that close to the hotel, why he has the clearance to go inside. They must know he doesn’t belong here and they must think he don’t deserve a job as cool as the one he has. 

Little do all they know that the pay is shit and Eunseok has had  to spend countless weekends trying to coax answers from half baked artists whose ego is the size of the sun. This job also gave Eunseok the shitty habit of smoking due to the stress, one that he has to cover up with travel sized mouthwash and sticks of gum. He only has the right to be here because he has schmoozed his way to this spot for nearly five years.

when Eunseok finishes his cigarette he removes all negative thoughts from his head. He drops the orange butt to the ground and puts it out with the heel of his cheap—affordable shoe. He goes back into his car and rolls up the window using the crank. Eunseok then clambers over the center console, reaching forward to the passengers seat to grab his messenger bag. He steps on wrappers of of candy and empty bags of fast food to go into the backseat of his shitty—vintage car. 

He gets out through the backdoor and goes to the front. He grabs his press badge that hangs off the rearview mirror. After he makes sure he has everything, he locks all the windows. It’s a whole process to make sure the car is secured, one that Eunseok forces himself to laugh about now.

The first step towards the hotel is the hardest. He has to hold onto the strap of his sling back for comfort and doesn’t look back at the crowd as he wills his feet forward. He can hear behind him people asking who he is, he even sees the shudders of a camera flash in confusion before it ceases immediately. He gets his press badge ready as he heads towards the entrance, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. His chews the two sticks of gum in his mouth vigorously before spitting it onto the pavement. The heeled boots almost sound hollow on the pavement, but it is loud enough to grab the attention of the cops. 

They look at him confused, one of them spreads his arms out to stop Eunseok from walking forward.

“No entry is allowed into the building, sir.” The officer says.

Eunseok is used to careless venue security questioning his credentials. In the presence of an actual badge he feels himself freezing up. He babbles, pulling up the flap of his messenger bag to try and call back whoever called him. He already starts to be herded back towards his car before Wendy turns away from her conversation to the commotion.

“He’s good to go up.” She yells.

Eunseok looks towards Wendy, leaving her conversation with an officer and a girl with a bathrobe and a bloodied face to approach Eunseok. She is halfway between the two conversations, yelling again to get the officers attention. 

He remembers when he first met Wendy. She was a clean cut professional, a titan in her field of managing artists. Before Halcyon she only managed solo pop artists, but with the music worlds preferences changing she went to managing rock bands instead. Wendy had Eunseok’s respect, she had the respect from half of the industry for her bravery when it came to managing the mess that was Halcyon. Sometimes he wondered if she regret her  decision. When she wasn’t wearing her fancy pantsuits or the expensive jewelry she looked tired. Her hair wasn’t managed in the neat bob but instead pulled to a tight ponytail. From here Eunseok could see that she was pulled from her bed the same way he was, he could see she still had her pajama bottoms on. Eunseok had never seen Wendy in sneakers the entire time he’s known her, but she slipped the shoes on and had a jacket thrown over what he assumed to be her night shirt. She looked exhausted. 

She didn’t even have the energy to try and explain what was going on. She only motioned towards the hotel, telling Eunseok that they were waiting for him on the thirty-ninth floor.

Eunseok was shocked when he walked through the lobby and it was completely empty. He had been in his fair share of hotel’s this late into the night, but there was always atleast a concierge behind the front desk. Here it was nothing, only Eunseok walking across the linoleum floors to the elevators. There was a feeling of dread creeping across his body as he waited for the elevator to come back to the lobby. He remembered the bloodied face of the girl outside, how desperate and tired Wendy looked in between talking to the cops and her. Eunseok already knew you had something to do with it. 

Eunseok looks at the elevator that has finally come down to the lobby. He shuffles inside, hitting the top floor and waits for the door to close.

Eunseok has always been forced to wait for Halcyon. When the band experienced overnight success purely from word of mouth and radio play it was hard to reach the group at all. The worst part was that the elusive nature of Halcyon wasn’t by design, it was purely because the group lacked the fundamentals that came with running a band. Back when the band had no manager or record label—even Halcyon wasn’t the official name yet—and they were essentially ghosts occupying the top of charts internationally and domestically. 

Back when Eunseok was struggling even more than he did now he was chasing after the group. He was for some reason more intrigued then by Halcyon. He became an investigative journalist, canvasing the dingy bars the band used to frequent to become a part of the rumor mill. He posed as an interested fan to get background information. Eunseok found out that Halcyon was a two member group, Shotaro Osaki on the drums and Park Wonbin on everything else. The storekeepers were more than happy to retell the stories, all of them claimed that in the back corner or on the small stage was where Halcyon was formed. They were the pride and joy of the rundown punk bars, nothing like the half-baked rock stars that dominated the scene.

Eunseok still remembers the rush of scoring an interview with the band for the first time. That was after Shotaro split for unknown reasons and you became his stand in. Eunseok was brought backstage by Wendy to talk with the two of you before a show. He remembers struggling to keep up with her in his shitty—affordable boots. He remembers swallowing the gum he forgot to spit out and having to wipe his sweaty hands on his pants to dry them. He remembers having to clear his throat constantly and being underneath your scrutinizing twin glares. He had to decipher your questions but still felt the rush when he saw either of your eyes light up from his informed history on the band.

Back then Eunseok was excited to be a part of Halcyon’s world.

Now as the red analog number climbs up to the top floor he feels a pit forming in his stomach. It’s a burning stone, when he takes in a deep breath through his nose he smells drugs burning. He hasn’t even made it to the top floor yet. 

“Front cover.” Eunseok whispered to himself as the number climbed higher. “Front cover, spread, and promotion.” He repeated.

As soon as the elevator opened, Eunseok could smell it. The thick musky smell of weed filled the floor, he swore there was even a haze in the hallway like there was a smoke cloud. He wondered if the person talking to the suits was actually a manager of the building, coming to an agreement or settlement for the damage and disturbance a Halcyon party caused. There was a reason why the band was denied service from multiple hotels, one of them being a lifetime ban from a chain of hotels across the world.

Eunseok grimaced at the strong smell of weed as he passed through one of the open doors. As if a police investigation wasn’t going on downstairs Eunseok looked through the crack in the door to a couple that was engaging in an even stronger substance. There were other people in the room too, some of them doing other drugs and others making a bigger mess of the hotel room. Eunseok saw ripped up sheets and feathers from the pillows, spray painting on the wall. 

Right as Eunseok peered into the room across from it, he saw someone emerge from the room to pound on the door. They paid him no mind, even when he froze in his footsteps. He noticed the ash on the floor underneath the feet of the person banging on the door. His eyes travelled to the burns in the rugs when the door finally opened. Eunseok was only able to get a peak at the trash furniture before the man rushed inside, closing the door so hard it shook the ground underneath Eunseok’s feet.  The deadbolt being turned filled the hallway and Eunseok was finally moved to take another step, despite everything in his mind telling him not to do so.

He could leave right now, take the elevator all the way down to the lobby, get back in his shitty car, and never engage with the band Halcyon ever again. He could just rely on word of mouth, he was also sure whatever happened here today would make its way through the grapevine right back to him. 

Eunseok took another step towards the shut door. At the end of the hallway, just like Wendy described. He remembered the tone of her voice, how it was grave and low like there were unknown horrors behind the door. The only person to make it out of the room was downstairs in a bathrobe with a bloodied face and broken hand. 

Another step.

Was the same fate waiting for him? Why did they think to contact him directly, how were they even able to contact him directly? Eunseok knew that he might’ve been caught snooping around the scene that birthed Halcyon, but he would’ve never thought it’d be paid any mind. 

He makes it to the door entirely too fast. He presses both palms flat to the door as he holds his ear to the wood. He hears nothing, the complete opposite from the other rooms on this floor. He can hear Halcyon’s latest album blast behind the door of one, he can hear screaming behind the other and he prays he’s not hearing what he thinks he hears behind another. He just needs to focus on hearing what goes behind this one.

Just as Eunseok gets an inkling of a sound, the door is ripped open. Eunseok almost falls into the room completely from his sudden loss of something to lean against.

When the door is fully opened he sees the mess you two made. Eunseok has to stand straight to take it all in, his lips part as he’s stun locked in the doors entrance. He heard about your shared tendency to trash hotel rooms, but he never knew it was to this extent. Eunseok looks at the chunks of the drywall ripped straight from the infrastructure of the room to litter the floor in varying chunks. the tiniest pieces are already embedded in the fancy carpeting, pummeled to white dust from the other things that transpired in the room. Every piece of furniture is broken. A chair is leaned on its side and missing all the legs but one. Another chair next to it has the seat cushion smashed in, and the vanity leans the the side completely. 

The queen sized bed in the middle is completely covered by a million things. Torn paper, jostled piles of clothes, balled up sheets. Pieces of drywall rest on the bed and so does one of the chair legs. Eunseok sees the guitar and the bass tossed on top as well. The feathers from the pillow still float around in the air, and only then can Eunseok bring his gaze back up to Wonbin.

Now is reminiscent of the first time he ever saw him. Even underneath the harsh light of the hallway Wonbin’s skin was tan and flawless, complete with beautiful eyes and plump lips. They were bitten and glistening from his tongue that he ran over them as Eunseok took in everything. His hair was newly dyed raven black, the black leftover dye beaded at his wet hairline. His hair still bounced with each turn of his head despite it being weighed down, and it set perfectly the same way it always did. Wonbin stood in front of Eunseok in just his bathrobe, calm and collected despite the scene behind him. He only nodded before flicking his head backwards and leaning in close to Eunseok like he was about to tell him a secret.

“It was her this time, not me.” Wonbin says with a smile on his face.

Only then does Eunseok notice you. Your legs dangling over the edge of the bed as your arms splay out over the sides. Eunseok can see your ripped leggings and your missing shoe, he sees the forming bruises on your legs and your lack of movement worries him. The same time he draws a breath Wonbin follows his gaze backwards. He’s confused at first but then he scoffs, still leaning against the door frame before turning his head to face you.

“Wake up. Eunseokie is here.” Wonbin said.

Eunseok peered past Wonbin to watch you finally move on the bed. When you got up by your arms propping up on the bed Eunseok could make out the red smudges of blood across your face and knuckles, the almost catatonic look in your eyes. Eunseok could see the matching white powder on your black clothes and Wonbin’s robe. He didn’t care to ask if it was the drywall or something else, he convinced himself it was the former. Eunseok was more intrigued by the obvious look of crashing on whatever high emotions you were coming down from, whatever obviously caused this. You seemed unaffected as your feet kicked over the edge of the mattress, you and Wonbin had twin sinister smiles without even realizing it.

Eunseok should’ve stayed home.

“Why am I here?” Eunseok asked.

“Remember when you first met us?” Wonbin asked.

Wonbin pulled at Eunseok’s arm to pull him into the hotel room. Eunseok stayed planted in place, looking over his shoulder towards the elevator. He could make his great escape right now, he could take the elevator down and then sneak past Wendy and go back to his car. He could drive it home and go to sleep, pretending this night never happened. What waited for him in this room couldn’t have been good. But Eunseok kept getting pulled by Wonbin, and the idea of having this exclusive interview prior to your inevitable arrest pulled at him even more. Eunseok sighed heavily and reluctantly let himself be pulled into the mess of the hotel room.

Your feet that dangled over the edge of the bed started kicking in excitement. You watched Eunseok get pulled in by Wonbin, and watched him close the door behind him. He stayed by the closed door as Wonbin walked away, standing next to the place you sat. You watched Eunseok look from Wonbin to you, then he looked from you to Wonbin. He let out a sigh that you two laughed at, and when he went to scratch his eyebrow you and Wonbin looked at eachother. 

“I remember.” Eunseok adjusted the strap on his messenger bag, settling onto the balls of his feet as he tried to get comfortable. He kicked away the piece of drywall that was wedged underneath his foot. Eunseok looks down and continues to drag his foot across the carpet. You see tiny specks of white flick up from the carpet. “I remember when I first met you guys.” He laments.

“What was the question you asked us then that we didn’t answer?” Wonbin asks.

You stop kicking your feet. You watch Eunseok try to remember what happened all those years ago. Truthfully, you two didn’t answer his questions to begin with. Even before the makeshift media training Wendy tried to give you both, you two had the tendency to avoid questions. That first interview Eunseok gave you backstage was a mess. You two derailed constantly, Wendy interjected twice, and Eunseok was such a nervous wreck he stumbled through half the interview. 

Now Eunseok seemed fed up with the band. If you cared, you would’ve felt embarrassed about the common pattern people had in relation to the band. Whenever anyone would first become involved with Halcyon, it was always the same. They would look at you and Wonbin with stars in their eyes, singing praises about the two of you without being prompted. As time would go on they’d get more and more fed up, until they completely avoided the band altogether. At this point, the only person that was consistently in your circle was Wendy, and that was only because she was getting paid an ungodly amount of money to put up with it. 

You didn’t know when it shifted for Eunseok. Maybe it was on his way here. You imagine the wound of remorse had been festering for awhile, he was practically on your payroll while barely reaping the benefits. He was the only reporter you and Wonbin were even remotely candid with, he was at all of your album releases and the big shows behind the stage. But to your knowledge he still drove that busted ass car you’d see broken down on the shoulders of highways. 

“I asked you guys alot of questions then.” Eunseok says.

He’s irritated. He looks around the room at the mess, his eyes drag across everything. You wonder how long he had to drive to get there. 

When Wonbin doesn’t give any more indication of what he’s talking about you watch him look up to the ceiling. You see his face drop at the slanted ceiling fan that was one pull away from falling completely.

“Was it question about you two being lovers?” Eunseok asks.

You almost tilt your head back and laugh at that. You remembered when Eunseok read back the lyrics to a song about lovers meeting in dark alleys and asked if it was about your relationship with Wonbin. Wonbin answered then, without hesitation, Who said we were lovers? Eunseok was taken aback, anticipating that you two would’ve thrown him a bone for being knowledgable about your music. You were taken aback because Wonbin declared his undying love for you only an hour before the interview took place.

“Who said we were lovers?” You say quickly.

There were plenty of things that indirectly explicitly said you two were lovers, or something akin to that. The fact that you two nearly fucked onstage every show, the only thing separating your lips was the microphone caught between you two. The stage lights caught in your eyes as you leaned closer and closer to him, dancing facing him as he did his solo on the guitar. That’s not even to talk about what would happen off stage. Before that interview Wonbin had your back leaned across the hood of his vintage red Mercedes Benz Convertible in the private parking lot, your legs slung over his shoulders as he kneeled on the yellow line of the parking space. You could still smell yourself on his tongue during the interview, and you were able taste yourself after the show too. Groupies fucked him knowing you two were fucking, people in your circles still whispered to this day about your relationship. But of course, if it’s not said, then it’s not true.

Eunseok looks up from the ground to your even expression. Your throat hurts even when you speak quietly, baring the weight of the screaming you were doing an hour ago. Eunseok smiles at you, you don’t know if he smiles at the irony of this answer or the other objectively hilarious things about this situation.

“Your chemistry is palpable.” Eunseok answes.

When Eunseok does a pulling motion at his hair you tilt your head back to laugh. The infamous part during your performances when you’d pull at the hair on Wonbin’s head. The first time you did it was real, a compulsive reaction in response to the constant mess he put you through. After that it was all for show, to play the part of unfaltering love where you needed him close to you by all means. A messy hand tangled in his sweaty hair as you brought him close until your foreheads touched. The hair pull would be referenced throughout your shared careers, something that you two would only shrug your shoulders at. Now it made Wonbin roll his eyes and sit on the edge of the bed to bring attention back to him.

“Not that.” Wonbin clarified. 

Eunseok sighs and brings his hands to pinch the bridge of his nose. You have to bite your lip to hold back the laughter.

“Why’d you two call me here?” Eunseok asks.

Wonbin looks to you. Eunseok looks to the floor and takes in another breath, as if he’s trying to calm himself.

“You did alot of research about Halcyon long before you ever met us.” Eunseok is at the point where he doesn’t care enough to hide it. He simply nods before Wonbin looks over to you and takes in a deep breath. “But there was always the one thing you could never figure out.”

Eunseok scratches the back of his head as he thinks, and when he realizes it his fingers stop in their tracks. Even with his eyes pointed towards the floor you can see them widen before he looks up. 

Eunseok looks between you and Wonbin, hand still in his hair.

“You’re going to tell me how you ended up joining the band?” Eunseok asks.

When you and Wonbin nod together, you can see that Eunseok’s interest has been piqued. He looks behind him briefly and grabs the stool that was tossed on its side, sitting up on it immediately. You watch him try to balance on the missing leg, slinging his messenger bag to his lap so he can open it. Almost immediately that same spiral journal materializes and so does a pen and recorder. Eunseok doesn’t hesitate to press record.

“On the record?” Eunseok asks.

You and Wonbin both nod, sitting up a little straighter. You nod but Eunseok flicks his head towards the recorder in his hand, a silent reminder that he needs to hear you confirm it.

“On the record.” You confirm.

Eunseok leans forward in his seat, and you can see him already imagining all the stories he’s going to sell. This will get him that front cover he’s had his sights on for God knows how long, but you can see him contemplate on why you’re doing all of this. Two selfish rockstars are suddenly willing to reveal something they have kept under wraps for so long. But he doesn’t want to ask the question. Now that Eunseok has you two os willing to spill the secret, he doesn’t want to lose his chance. You’re lucky he doesn’t pry, and he’ll be lucky if you don’t clam up in the middle and recant your statement. You believe that’s why Eunseok acts fast now. He wastes no time to make sure his pen can write, and he opens up his journal to a page that already has questions written on it. A pair of glasses materializes on his face as he reads the page carefully.

“You both said that you met in an alleyway, but that didn’t lead to you getting put in the band.” 

Eunseok looks up from his journal and you shake your head. After Wonbin mounted you in the back of his tour bus while Wendy and and his bandmates looked for him he denied your request to come on tour with them.

“You gotta leave.” Wonbin buttoned his shirt while you were still laid out on your back in his bed. “No groupies are allowed on tour with us.” He said.

That’s when you pulled yourself from the mattress, ignoring the soreness across your body to be eye level with him. 

“I’m not a groupie.” You said matter-of-factly.

Wonbin stopped buttoning his shirt to look back at you with a smirk etched across his face.

“Oh yeah?” He asked.

Despite the obvious taunting in his voice you nodded anyway. You dug your hands deeper into the mattress, ignoring that sinking feeling that was in your gut. 

“I’m a singer. And I play bass.” You said.

Wonbin looked forward with a scoff while continuing to button his shirt.

“The band is full. We already have a singer and someone that plays bass.” He said.

Despite being told explicitly no, you leaned forward on the bed and shook your head.

“I write too. I’m a better at bass than that kid.” You said.

Wonbin only shook his head at you then. He insisted that he couldn’t take that kid out of the band because that was his bestfriend and he was excellent at the bass. He wasn’t wrong, after his time in Halcyon, Sion went on to be a well loved and revered bass player in the industry. He just wasn’t as good at you.

And he was in your way.

You shook your head at Eunseok to tell him that you were not let into the band that night. You saw the inquisitive look in his eye as he continued down the page, eyeing something written in the margins.

“Sion, the previous bassist of Halcyon said that he dropped from the group after he couldn’t complete the tour. He couldn’t give me the specifics then, and he doesn’t accept interviews now—”

“Good for him.” Wonbin interjects.

Eunseok eyes Wonbin carefully. Wonbin has omitted eye contact with both you and Eunseok, now it’s his turn to look around the room. He is focused on the smears of red wine that stain the wall and the broken glass that litters the floor in front of it. 

“I was wondering if you could enlighten me on his departure from the group?” Eunseok asked.

You knew that Eunseok took his research about the band seriously a long time ago. Back when the circle was small and word made it back to you and Wonbin quickly, you were informed that someone was snooping around the scene and asking about Halcyon. Back when the radio play was new and no one knew your names, there was a quiet man snooping around the places the band used to frequent and asking questions. 

You laugh to yourself and shake your head. Then you thought Eunseok was a cop, and you were scared shitless until you found out he was just a newbie reporter trying to impress his bosses.

“What does that have to do with me?” You asked.

“Well. Sion’s departure opened up a spot for you in Halcyon.” Eunseok pointed towards Wonbin, whose gaze had rotated to the wall behind Eunseok. “Don’t you think he left under strange circumstances?” He asked.

Wonbin only shrugged his shoulders. Eunseok went back to his notepad and wrote something you couldn’t see.

“I just heard her voice one night, and I couldn’t let it go.” Wonbin says.

That earns a big laugh. One that has you tilting your head back and laughing directly to the dangling ceiling fan. You laugh even more when you see Eunseok trying to understand, to connect the bits and pieces of stories he’s heard to match your reaction. He knows it’s no use, that he can only begin to assume why Wonbin turns to watch you laugh with a knowing smirk on his face that only grew with your reaction.

“Oh that’s what that was?” You say, wiping away a tear. 

Wonbin’s confession that he loved your voice was said before he heard you sing. He huffed it into the crook of your neck as his fingers pumped in and out of your heat in the back of the tour bus. After Gainesville, it seemed only right to follow him to Raleigh. You started finding your way to the back of the tour bus before anyone else was there. If Wonbin had half a working braincell or any thought beyond feeling good he should’ve been worried about how you so easily found your way onto the bus. But you found out quickly he only worried about his post-concert rituals, evident in the way he practically crawled to you down the narrow hallway of the bus. 

You waited for him at the very back on his bottom bunk, legs open and propped on the edge of the mattress. The closer he got the slower and lower he went, until he pressed a longing kiss to the area right above your ankle.

“How’d you know it was me?” He asked before placing another kiss.

“I didn’t.” You whispered.

That only spurred Wonbin on more. Despite popular opinion, Wonbin was more of the sheltered than he cared to admit. Before becoming a rockstar he grew up in the suburbs of Queens to a working class family. His proximity to the city lead to him seeing crazy on the subways and overhearing it on the bus, but he never met crazy. He never met someone who carelessly exposed herself  in the back of tour busses, or found a way to break into them by stealing the keys. He never met someone who so shamelessly lead his hand underneath the band of her underwear, or would finger herself if Wonbin wasn’t moving fast enough or doing it right. What type of guitarist doesn’t know how to use his hands? You’d always tease him without second thought, looking down to him when he spent his time looking down on everyone else. Wonbin never met someone who would get lost in him so easily, moaning loudly in his ear as he worked another finger in. 

But he had also never met someone who so clearly always had an ulterior motive. When he was getting lost in you and using you to keep the post-concert adrenaline from killing him you’d lean in close, hand wrapped in his hair before sucking harshly on the skin of his neck.

“Let me in the band.” You moaned.

Wonbin was going to say no before you pressed you palm hard against the crotch of his jeans. He felt your warmth and force seep through the thick fabric and his fingers in you stopped there movement. He only regained his composure when you started grinding your hands against his palm.

“Sion.” You pressed harder. Wonbin pushed his dick against your flattened hand. “Bassist.” He mumbled.

“Mhm. I know.” You licked the side of Wonbin’s face and continued talking directly to his ear as you pressed harder. His hand that was behind you suddenly gripped your waist with a bruising strength. “What if I got rid of him?” You asked.

Wonbin couldn’t see the way you were already thinking about how Sion could be dealt with. He was only paying attention to the way your walls clamped around his fingers and how you preened into his touch. He was so consumed by you that he only nodded his head quickly while digging his fingers further into your waist.

You assumed Wonbin took some of the blame for Sion’s abrupt departure from the band. Leaving in the middle of the tour after a brief stint in the hospital, a spot Halcyon suddenly opened up for you. You didn’t question it, neither did Wonbin. Shotaro was the only one that kept a close eye on you, whispering to his bandmate and not saying a word in your presence. You still remembered Shotaro’s reluctancy to even let you in the band, but you were down a bassist and you knew all the music. Just for a couple stops. Shotaro always made sure to make that clear.

Now you were here and he was not.

“Sion and Shotaro leaving is completely unrelated to me.” You say matter-of-factly. “I don’t think they like to be mentioned in articles these days either.” 

Eunseok digresses. He would love to ask how the group dwindled down to just the two of you but he knows he will be here forever, peeling back layer after layer. He’s also convinced he’s running out of time due to the sound of the other people on this floor yelling about pigs and the sound of doors being busted down. It’s only a matter of time before they seize the illegal contraband that’s in the other rooms and seizes you and Wonbin. So he closes his notebook and leans forward in the broken chair, putting all of his weight on the leg in the front.

“Where were you inducted into the band?” He asks.

“Fukushima.” You and Wonbin answer at the same time.

“Okay well.” Eunseok tries getting comfortable in the chair but its missing leg causes it to lean to the side. He has to keep his foot planted where the missing end would be. “What happened in Fukushima?” He repeats.

The same thing that happened in Fukushima happened in New York. And Amsterdam. And Ibiza. Anywhere in the world where you two were left to your own devices it happened.

Before you even landed in Japan, Wonbin was getting on your nerves. You were getting on his. The both of you were getting on the nerves of your entire team, looming over everyone like impeding doom. You both blamed it on the Asian showcase you were forced to go on. You downgraded from the sold out venues in North America to the crowded and stuffy underground clubs of the rock scene across Eastern Asia. 

The first strike happened in Beijing. Halycon’s studio debut record was snuck to the rock scene on cassette tapes from Hong Kong and Taiwan. Everyone in the crowd dressed like Wonbin, they had their hair touching their shoulders and the same leather jacket he donned. There, they liked him more. They sang his lyrics back to him twice as loud, shaking the floor and causing the windows to vibrate. The cramped stage caused you to accidentally step on the amp of Wonbin’s acoustic guitar, causing the music to abruptly stop. You were forced to perform an unplugged version of a song, making you shine but leaving Wonbin looking like an idiot. He was convinced you did it on purpose, seething at you on the private jet that you were jealous you weren’t a star like he was. You seethed back, telling him that he was nothing but a half-baked rockstar who let praise inflate his ego. 

The second strike was in Hongdae. If Wonbin was the favorite in Beijing, you were the favorite there. There all the men fell to your feet, passing you bouquets and crying anytime you looked in their general direction. They worshipped the ground you walked on, they followed you around the city after the show. You could see the anger on Wonbin’s face when you looked towards him in the middle of the show. You smiled at the permanent scowl, you took it a step further to ask the crowd please make some noise for our guitarist as if it was a charity. Wonbin gave a shy smile and bowed, but at the end of the show he held your hand tight, a silent sign that he was upset. You held his hand towards the  crowd, using his silent threat as a testament to your dedication to eachother.

You enjoyed the instances where you could use his narcissistic tendencies against him. He also performed better when he was angry. You liked when he’d look to you before cursing or inciting a fight in the crowd. People like Wonbin were born to be mad, and you believed you were put on this Earth to stoke the fire. 

When he was angry and it’d come to a boiling point when you two were alone it also meant he’d fuck you better. In Beijing you two made a mess of your hotel room, the bedsheets pulled from the bed and the floors cleared from the sounds you were making. 

That night in Hongdae, when you and Wonbin were at a penthouse party of some millionaire you two found a room away from everyone else. He caught you at the base of the stairs getting unbearably close to a man in a suit, and that ensued a screaming match. The drugs and the alcohol made everyone oblivious to your fight, or maybe the anger coursing through your veins made you forget about everyone else entirely. All you knew was that the fight ending with Wonbin chasing you up the stairs, pushing at you while you threw your limbs back in an effort to make him fall. He was poking and prodding at you, while you corralled him into a room with a lockable door.

“I fucking hate you.” You yelled it before the door even shut. 

Wonbin laughed as he turned the lock with his hands shaking from rage. You felt fire from the soles of your feet getting higher and higher, his sudden calmness only making you more upset.

“I fucking hate you back.” Wonbin sneered.

By the time the music changed downstairs to another floor shaking song you had Wonbin pushed against the door. Your face inches away from his, a permanent scowl etched on your face. An article was released the same day that rock-n-roll was dying and rockstars were all narcissists with anger issues. You stared down the man that refused to let you into the band you were singing and writing for so he could be the only star. Wonbin looked at the girl who got rid of his bandmates so she could secure her spot in the group.

When you and Wonbin looked at eachother for too long everything else started to come to the surface. It was hard to pretend to be an unbothered rockstar when someone who was going through the exact same thing was looking at you so intently. It was hard to fake indifference when the overwhelming weight of performing was becoming clearer and clearer. Why were you two doing this? Nothing was binding you to Halcyon or Wonbin. You could’ve booked a flight home and pretended none of this ever happened. He could afford to stop performing then and there with enough money to sustain his lifestyle.

But you two both knew whatever this was, was more complicated than that. Too avoidant and too toxic to quit, and the money and fame wasn’t too bad either. You two didn’t need an understanding relationship. Happy people made ballads and the stupid pop music that was stealing your radio play and the general public. Rockstars were toxic and they were mean, they are terrible because it’s freeing. So instead of bringing you close and telling you that he’s scared for the future of his band, Wonbin reaches forward and clashes his lips against yours. 

His kisses are angry and they make no sense. His teeth clash against yours and he moves you backwards in the general direction of a bed. You pull at him by a hand wrapped in his shirt and you make tiny sounds at each harsh collision. He was never gentle with you, and you liked it that way. Something had to have been fundamentally broken inside of you, something that would’ve made you want a normal life. Or to feel remorse for your actions that led you to this point. It was hard to believe that the way you behaved was wrong, because it made you money and one of the most famous people in the world.

“On the bed.” Wonbin said.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do.” You said back immediately.

Wonbin replied by tugging at your chest by your perked nipples that poked through your tee. You gasped in surprise and pain before cupping his dick roughly. The two of you stood next to the bed for a moment, smiling at the pain you were bringing the other. It wasn’t long before the pain turned into pleasure and you both fell to the bed at the same time. 

The next morning you two only woke up because Wendy had called every apartment building in the Hongdae area. As if the night before didn’t happen, like you and Wonbin didn’t relieve the tension through rough touches and markings, you still fought. During the plane ride you two were silent, the start of your mutual meltdowns. Wonbin wouldn’t speak directly to you the whole day, using Wendy and the roadies as an indirect link to conversation. You were just as worse, referring to Wonbin as that guy, stripping him of his name completely. That guy wouldn’t look at you as you did your soundcheck, that guy only sneakily said someone’s flat underneath his breath whenever a note didn’t sound right. 

By the time you made it to your underground Fukushima show you two weren’t speaking to eachother at all. Wendy refused to be involved in your mess and everyone else cleared the room when they saw either of you approaching. You two just let the silence continue, neither of you saying a word until you were about to go onstage. The worked of the club set up the mic stands on the small circular stage you two would be sharing before Wonbin suddenly turned to you.

“Halcyon is just me.”

With your eyes casted forward in shock, Wonbin saw his chance to take the stage. He left you on the other side as he started the concert without you, singing your part as you stood there in silence. You stumbled on stage and through the rest of the concert, hating that he bested you. The smile on Wonbin’s face said it all as he continued playing his guitar and singing your lines. When the show was over and the lights went out, Wonbin was like a ghost. He cleared the stage and the venue quickly, leaving you in the dust and without a place in the band. 

Two bangs on the door interrupted your story. Eunseok nearly fell from his chair at the abrupt sound. The impact shook the ceiling fan and made Wonbin look towards the door. 

You almost looked too, but Eunseok’s hand kept you focused on him. 

“What happened next?” Eunseok said, his voice laced with urgency.

“She came to me and expressed,” Wonbin stayed locked on the door as three more harsh knocks rang throughout the hotel room. “Her desire to be in the band.” He says, motioning to the room.

Eunseok would’ve loved to think that you came by Wonbin’s hotel room in Fukushima with agents and your demo tape, maybe even an audition prepared to show him you could fit into the music for Halcyon. But the way Wonbin smiled slyly and you leaned over and hit his shoulder made Eunseok think different. You two giggled together as you recalled more and more of that night. You only continued to giggle as the police made their presence known on the other side of the door. 

After the Fukushima show Wonbin left you all alone. You paced around in your hotel room as the carelessness in his voice as he denied you being a member of the group once again. You heard from security that Wonbin was down the hall with a girl that stayed behind at the venue. The same part replayed again in your mind. You couldn’t control yourself from leaving your hotel room and storming down the hall. 

You told the same story to Eunseok as the cops continued to beat on the door, the one he heard through the grapevines and the mugshot of you that was lost over the course of time and the lack of coverage of the arrest overseas. You often imagined if the story was relayed the same way back to him, or if the details were muddied by the game of telephone.

Wonbin and his groupie of the night just finished. She was face down on the bed, trying to recollect herself. You know Wonbin was able to go through so many girls and have so many crawling back not just because he’s gorgeous but because he knows how to fuck. Just look at him. Eunseok would’ve had to listen to hours of wishful thinking from girls who would never have a chance before getting to the actual information. You’re sure they left out the fact that you were wearing the same outfit you met Wonbin in, except you had no shoes on your feet. Just running down the expensive hotel lobby barefoot, barely making a sound as you cleared the carpet. 

They would’ve never talked about the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you held your ear up to the door. You could barely hear yourself when you covered the peephole and knocked politely. The groupie was so out of it that she didn’t think twice when someone covered the peephole and said “room service!” in a cheery voice. The girl who was still wobbly-kneed and only wearing a bathrobe called for Wonbin to answer the door. Poor girl must’ve never been to a hotel before. What type of hotel has room service that late in the night? She was nothing fit to be a rockstar. Wonbin thought that he could just replace you by finding another girl at the end of his show, like you weren’t one of a kind. He was too busy running the water for a bath and smoking his post-sex cigarette to be bothered. 

He just said “You can get it,” knowing that crazy bitch was on the other side! 

The retellings of that night never got it right. They never stopped to consider what Wonbin was doing. 

Plenty of people naturally assumed he was naked while this was happening. If he was in the bathroom drawling a bath or simply laying in the bed was always commonly fought about. They didn’t know that Wonbin was sitting on the closed toilet seat in the bathroom wrapped in a robe as he watched the tub fill with water. He was smoking his American Spirit in complete serenity while the fight happened behind him. He had the bathroom door opened, watching the fight with a smile on his face and a canoeing cigarette between his fingers before he turned away completely to deny culpability in case it ended badly. He counted the mustard tiles that lines the bathroom as each punch, scratch, slap, and scream came from the other room. You think afterwards he turned to look at himself in the mirror underneath the warm yellow glow of the light and adjusted his appearance. You imagined he knew he���d be suffering the same fate if he didn’t turn the charm on. 

But you didn’t know what Wonbin was doing exactly. You couldn’t see much besides the girl underneath you. You couldn’t hear anything besides the noises you two were making together. 

When you would entertain the rumors and have them relayed back to you, there were always multiple accounts of the brawl between you and the groupie. What they did get right that one the door was open a crack you kicked it open full force. 

What they got wrong was that the groupie screamed immediately. She did yell when you got on top of her after she fell to the ground, but that was only after the initial shock wore off. Even Wonbin turned away from his cigarette when he heard the impact of the door on the groupies nose. The post-coitus warmth was replaced with something burning when you screamed first.

When the rest of the floor started opening up their doors and seeing what was happening in the room was when the other eye witness accounts started getting messy. Some say the groupie fought back. Some of them said that you kicked the door open so hard it fell off its hinges. The common consensus was that you fucked that poor girl up! then wrote a song about it! 

“Did you listen to the song through your blown out speakers, Eunseokie?” You asked.

Even he was turned towards the door as the police continued to slam into you. You focused on the tape recorder instead, eyes locking onto the two spinning reels as you continued your story.

People didn’t know if the stories inspired the lyrics, or if the stories were spun by people overanalyzing the lyrics. You and Wonbin were the only songwriters on all Halcyon tracks, it was hard for people to not think the music derived from your personal lives. The song couldn’t stop people from thinking you came around that corner into the bathroom with a knife in your hand. The groupie found a way out from underneath you and bolted out of the room screaming for her life with a bloodied face and her tail between her legs. You leaned against the doorframe as Wonbin stared up at you, not even looking at what you had in your hand.

“If you want me to do something for you, you need to use your words.”Wonbin would say. 

Maybe if they listened to the prechorus hard enough they’d know you dropped the knife instantly. But if they listened to the bridge they would’ve thought you waved it around just for show to see if you could scare Wonbin. But by the way he joined you as the backing vocals they’d know he had only looked to your bloody knuckles before taking a long drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke fill up the last sacred space in America where you could smoke indoors before offering it to you. He’d still sit on the toilet seat but lean towards the small ceramic sink to show you he wasn’t scared in the slightest. 

You took an even bigger drag than Wonbin did, watching the ember at the end ignite before turning to ash. You’d let out a smoky cloud right into his face, shuddering from the release of tension.

“Was she better than me?” You’d ask after putting out the end on the lip of the sink. 

Black and gray ash smeared against the white surface. You looked from the mess you were making on the sink to see Wonbin wordlessly shaking his head.

“Not even close.” He said without missing a beat.

“I should cut your dick off.” You’d laugh about it, pointing your long nail towards Wonbin’s dick that was twitching against the fabric of his bathrobe.

“Why? So you can keep it for yourself?” He teased.

Once again, this was where things got fuzzy for you. Some secrets are meant to stay between lovers, or whatever this mutually toxic and equally awful thing you and Wonbin had going on. The cops that came through then back in Fukushima were alot more serious than the cops that came through the door here, in Paramus, New Jersey. For Wendy—who followed closely behind the cops here—this would be an easy story to cover up. Another mugshot of yours would be taken and hidden behind lock and key, only getting revealed to people who would spend their hard earnings from work to see it behind dumpsters in alleyways. This night would just be another anecdote in the long line of mysterious lyrics and subject-changing phrases. The only form of proof in a small black and white photo of yourself. Your smiling face covered in scratches, makeup smudged across your eye bags from excessive rubbing, and blood on smeared across your blue and black knuckles that held up the card with your name and which jail held you overnight. You looked down to see that the collar of your black shirt was stretched beyond saving around your neck. 

Even when you looked like that, Wonbin stared at you like you put the sun and the the moon and the stares into the sky. You stared him down, leaving bloodstains on whatever you touched. He stood from his spot on the toilet seat to be eye level with you. 

I hear they fuck like they’re at war. I was sleeping with their bassist and I could hear them from down the hall. 

Wonbin grabbed at your wrist, bring your hand to eye level. You clenched your fist in a last ditch attempt at resisting him, but he’d pull you into his bare chest so fast you’d barely have time to adjust. You settled in embarrassingly fast, giving you the most gentle kiss on your cracked red lips. You couldn’t taste any other girl on him over the smoke. You were burning eachother up, only pulling the other to get closer. At the thought of the other girl in this position you felt the rage bubbling in again, but instead of fighting you only leaned fully into Wonbin, making your shared bodyweight pressed against the tiny sink. 

You and him were reacting in desperation only. His rough hand pulling at your waist underneath your shirt, your hand fisting the material of his clothes. Your shirt was off and your pants were wrapped around only one ankle as you two clambered around the tiny space of the bathroom. She’s one of those new-age feminists, ya know the type that likes to be in charge, even in bed. You pushed him against the wall opposite of the sink, then against the closed door of the bathroom. Anytime he tried to take control your took it back, slipping your tongue into his mouth and tilting his head the way you wanted it to go with your bloody hands. Anytime he tried to do the same you smacked away his hand or pinched his neck. The only thing you allowed Wonbin to do was stuff his hand into your underwear, and the only time you let him guide you was to put your foot on the edge of the tub to open you up more. 

Wonbin is even worse than her though. since he’s so used to getting what he wants. If they were wrong they would’ve guessed he took control back by picking you up and fucking you against the wall or on top of the sink, reeling off the metallic smell of blood while your hands tangled in his inky hair. 

In the end they were only right about the two of you being reckless, just reckless. You two carelessly kicked the knife around, causing the wooden handle to ricochet off the walls on the ground. Even with a spinning blade near your feet you two wouldn’t be deterred. You two wouldn’t separated until a police officer came through the crooked open door with the groupie trailing close behind. 

“That’s her!” She said in a shrill voice as she pointed her finger towards you. 

You only rolled your eyes before pulling away from Wonbin. He put on his robe while you lazily put on your clothes, being pulled away in handcuffs. Even haphazardly clothed on your way to jail you were be unbothered, quickly fixing your mussed hair with blood crusting underneath your fingernails. Only when you heard the whistling of a cop as they guided you out the hotel room would you remember the other reason you came to Wonbin’s hotel. 

Other people waited for you in the hallway. Roadies you couldn’t remember the name of, more cops holding things they will try to put you away to jail for, and Wendy with that look of disappointment on her face. Eunseok trailed close behind, Eunseok still holding the tape recorder close to your mouth.

She looked back to him one more time as the police were leading her out. This is seriously what the cops and what the groupie said she said, word for word. She looked back, hair a mess, blood on her hands and scratches on her face but smiling like a fucking crazy idiot. She started whistling with the cop like she knew the mindless tune or something. Before she rounded the corner to leave the room she spoke directly to him. 

He leaned against the broken doorframe of the hotel room with his arms crossed like an upset Mom watching her kid get walked out. When she looked back at him he smiled like he read her fucking mind or something.

“This means i’m in the band, right?”