#frame by frame reigns supreme to me

[spectra-bear]

gghghdhhdh stankyleg

[gratelove]

Take Me

Jon Snow x Reader

In a secret rendezvous, Jon Snow and his lifelong friend confess their love, struggling with the societal barriers that keep them apart. Faced with Jon's impending departure to the Night's Watch, they decide to give themselves to one another, stealing a moment from the world, a moment that was theirs and theirs alone.

Warnings: 18+, p in v, virginity, fluff, smut

The dim glow of the fire was the only light in the room, casting shadows on the stone walls of Jon Snow’s bedroom. The flames danced and crackled, filling the silence with their rhythmic song. The winter wind howled outside, its icy fingers clawing at the castle’s sturdy walls. But inside, beneath a thick pile of furs, warmth reigned supreme.

Jon lay on his back, his bare chest rising and falling slowly with each breath. His dark hair spilled over the pillow, framing his face in a mess of curls. You lay beside him, propped up on your elbow, your fingers idly tracing patterns on his chest. You watched your own movements, the way his skin felt warm and smooth under your fingertips, like silk stretched over steel.

“Remember that time you tried to ride Ghost like a horse?” Jon asked, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. His voice was soft, as if he were afraid of breaking the tranquility of the moment.

You chuckled, your hand pausing mid-circle. “I was sloshed, Jon. I thought he was big enough to carry me.” Your eyes glinted with the memory, the corners of your mouth curling up into a smile. “To be fair, he didn’t seem to mind until you came running out, screaming like I was trying to kill him.”

Jon shook his head, his smile widening. “You could have broken your neck. Ghost may be big, but he’s no horse.”

You laughed softly, the sound a melody against the crackling of the fire. “And who taught him to knock me off with a nudge of his head, hmm? You spent weeks training him to do that, didn’t you?”

He shrugged, feigning innocence, but his eyes twinkled with mischief. “Maybe. I couldn’t let my best friend go around thinking direwolves were for riding. What kind of man would that make me?”

“A smart one,” you teased, leaning down to rest your head against his shoulder. Your finger resumed its lazy path over his chest, tracing the faint scars that crisscrossed his skin. “You’ve always been a better man than you gave yourself credit for.”

Jon’s expression softened, his smile fading into something more thoughtful. “I don’t know about that,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “There’s a lot I don’t know. So many things I’ve done… mistakes I’ve made.”

You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his. “We all make mistakes, Jon. It’s what we do after that matters.” Your hand moved to cup his cheek, thumb brushing against his stubble. “You’re a good man, Jon Snow.”

His eyes searched yours, as if trying to find the truth in your words. Finally, he sighed and nodded, his gaze softening. “Thank you,” he said simply, and the warmth in his voice matched the fire’s glow.

You fell into a comfortable silence, the firelight flickering over your faces. Outside, the wind howled again, a reminder of the harsh winter beyond the walls. But here, in this room, you were safe, wrapped in warmth and the familiarity of each other.

“Do you remember the day we first met?” you asked, breaking the quiet. Your voice was low, tinged with nostalgia. “You were what, ten? And you were trying to shoot an arrow straight into the heart of that practice dummy.”

Jon chuckled, nodding. “I missed every shot that day. I was so nervous.” He turned his head to look at you, his eyes sparkling with the memory. “You were there with your father. He introduced us, and you didn’t even say a word. Just stared at me with those big eyes of yours.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I was so shy back then. You were the one who broke the ice. You said I looked like a lost pup.”

Jon grinned. “And you kicked me in the shin for it.”

“And you deserved it,” you said, giggling. “I was not a lost pup.”

“No,” Jon agreed, pulling you closer under the furs. “You were always stronger than you looked.” He paused, his expression turning serious. “And you still are. You’ve been with me through everything. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you nestled closer, resting your head against his chest. Jon’s arm tightened around you, his thumb stroking your shoulder in a gentle rhythm. The action caused a shiver to rush down your spine. His fingers were like fire on your skin, burning hot with each touch.

You turned your head to look at him, your eyes tracing the sharp lines of his face, softened in the glow of the firelight. Jon’s eyes were closed, his dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His features were relaxed, more at peace than you had seen him in a long time. Your heart ached with the love you felt for him, a love that had always been there, growing silently until it could no longer be denied.

“Jon,” you whispered, your voice barely a breath.

He opened his eyes, turning his head to meet your gaze. “Hmm?”

You smiled, your hand reaching out to touch his face. Your fingers brushed over his cheek, down to his jaw, feeling the roughness of his stubble under your fingertips. “I love you,” you said softly, the words hanging in the air between you.

Jon’s expression softened, his eyes darkening with emotion. He turned his head to kiss the inside of your wrist, his lips warm against your skin. “I love you too,” he replied, his voice a low murmur. He peppered kisses down your arm and the sensation caused you to squeeze your thighs together at the ache it created in your core.

The look in his eyes sent a shiver through you, a longing you had been trying to suppress rising to the surface. You shifted closer, your body pressing against his, your hand moving from his face to his chest, once again. You could feel the steady beat of his heart under your palm, the heat of his skin as your hand traveled lower.

“Jon,” you whispered again, your voice trembling. Your hand moved farther, finding the hem of his trousers. “I want to be with you,” you said, your eyes locked on his. “All of you.”

Jon stiffened at your words, his eyes searching yours. “Y/N, we can’t,” he said quietly, his voice strained.

You bit your lip, your eyes filling with a mixture of sadness and desperation. “But you’re leaving soon,” you said, your voice breaking. “To join the Night’s Watch. Once you take the black, you’ll be sworn to celibacy. I don’t know when, or if, I’ll ever see you again. I want to be with you, Jon. Before you go. I want you to be my first.”

Jon sat up, his face tightening with conflict. He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes filled with pain. “I can’t,” he said, his voice rough. “You’re a lady of the North, and I’m a bastard. If we did this… if anyone found out…”

“No one will find out,” you interrupted, sitting up as well, your voice trembling. “I don’t care what people think. I don’t care about titles. I care about you. I want you, Jon. I want my first time to be with someone I love. With you.”

Jon looked away, his jaw clenched. “If I did that,” he said quietly, “I’d be taking something from you. Something that can’t be given back. If you lost your maidenhead to me, it would ruin your chances of finding a husband. A good man who can give you a life, a home, a family. You deserve that.”

You reached out, taking his hand in yours. “What if I don’t want that?” You asked softly. “What if I don’t want some lord, or a life that means nothing to me? What if all I want is you?”

Jon turned back to you, his eyes filled with sorrow. “You think that now,” he said, his voice heavy with emotion. “But what about in the future? What about when you want children, a real home? I can’t give you those things. Not openly. I’d always be a secret. You’d always be living a half-life, hiding in the shadows.”

“I don’t care,” you insisted, your voice rising with desperation. “I don’t care about the future, or what might happen. I care about now. About this moment. I don’t want to look back and regret not being with you when I had the chance. Please, Jon. Just this once.”

Jon’s face softened, his eyes filled with love and sadness. He reached out, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tears that had begun to fall. “I love you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “More than anything. But I can’t let you ruin your life for me. I can’t be the reason you lose everything.”

“You’re not ruining my life,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “You’re the only thing that makes me happy. If you leave, and we never… If we don’t share this moment, I’ll always regret it. I’ll always wonder what it would have been like.”

Jon closed his eyes, his own tears threatening to fall. He knew the truth, even if he wished it were different. In the eyes of the world, he was nothing more than a bastard, a stain on the Stark family name. He had no lands, no title, no claim to any future. The best he could hope for was to join the Night’s Watch, to live out his days in service on the Wall. He had nothing to offer you but a life of secrecy, of stolen moments and hidden love.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice breaking. “I can’t do that to you. I won’t. If you regret this later, I’d never forgive myself.”

You looked at him, your eyes pleading. “But I love you,” you said, your voice cracking. “And you love me. Isn’t that enough?”

Jon pulled you into his arms, holding you close, his chin resting on top of your head. “It is enough,” he whispered. “It has to be enough. Because I can’t lose you, and I can’t be the one to take away your choices. I won’t be the reason you’re unhappy.”

“I am a woman that is capable of making my own decisions. You do not decide for me. I decide for myself. I get to choose what I will regret and what I won’t. I get to choose the life I lead and burdens I carry. And I choose you, Jon. You, and no other. Let me be sullied. Let me be stripped of maidenhead, as long as it is by your hand. Take me, Jon. Take me before we never get the chance again. Take me before you leave me. You owe me that much.” Your eyes burned with determination as Jon sat in silence for a long moment. The air between you was thick with anticipation. You could see Jon’s resolve beginning to crumble at your words. He reached out, his hand trembling as he cupped your cheek.

“What if I do this and I can’t let you go?” He whispered, his voice barely audible. “What if I need this too?”

Your eyes softened, and you moved closer, your face only inches from his. “Then don’t let me go,” you whispered back. “Be with me, Jon. Here. Now. Forget the world outside, even if just for tonight.”

Jon’s breath hitched, his heart in his chest. He knew what he was about to do had consequences, but in this moment, he couldn’t find a reason to care. He leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both desperate and tender. This kiss was filled with years of unspoken feelings and hidden desires.

The kiss deepened, your bodies pressing together as the heat between you grew. Jon’s hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, needing to feel you against him. You responded in kind, your hands sliding to the hem of his trousers, hooking into the band, then ran your nails up his abs. Your touch sent shivers down his spine as he groaned into your mouth at the pleasure and the pain.

You broke apart and your small hands found the bottom of your slip. He watched you pull it over your head and throw it to the ground. The firelight cast the shadow of your, now bare, silhouette against the stone walls. While the fire was warm, the cool winter breeze floated through the window to send bumps up your skin. Jon licked his lips as he drank in every inch of you. He lifted his hand, but stopped before his fingers could reach your exposed breasts. You looked down to see his hand trembling, his breathing shallow. He was just as nervous as you were. This was his first time as well. You grabbed his wrist, moving his hand until it rested on your chest. You sucked in a breath at the sensation of his warm palm against your nipple. Slowly, his hand ran across your sternum, up and over your collarbone, and down to your other breast. It moved down the curve of your waist and down your abdomen, mapping out every inch of your exposed skin. Your hand gripped his shoulder as he pulled you onto his lap.

“Are you sure?” Jon asked, his voice rough with desire and restraint. You could feel his bulge pressed against your core as you straddled him. He needed to hear you say you were sure, needed to know this is what you truly wanted.

“Yes,” you breathed, your eyes locked on him. A pool was forming in between your thighs. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

With a groan, Jon captured your lips, flipping and lowering you both onto the bed. He moved slowly, reverently, as if you were something precious and fragile. You wrapped your legs around his wait, pulling him hard into you. You needed to feel him now. You had dreamt about this moment for too long, and now that it was happening, you couldn’t contain the need. He ground against you, earning a moan, in between kisses. He pushed his cock against your exposed center again, making you buck your hips. You felt Jon smile into your lips and you had to pull away for air.

Jon took the opportunity to rid himself of his trousers, leaving him fully exposed. You propped yourself on your elbows, eyes traveling down the v that was perfectly chiseled into him as it led straight to his hard length. He was large and the idea made you nervous. You were told it would hurt, but were worried he may not fit. He ran his hand through his black curls to give him better vision of you gaping at him. A devilish smile made its way to his beautiful face. He crawled on top of you, placing his hands on your shoulders to gently push you against the mattress.

“Are you nervous?” You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth at his question. Your eyes went from his, to his length, and back up to meet his gaze.

“Yes. It’s going to hurt,” you said, trying to swallow to bring moisture back to your dry throat.

“I’ll go slow, my love. As slow as you need.” You nodded, taking a deep breath. You braced your hands on his shoulders and watched as he used one hand to align himself with your entrance, the other next to your head. You felt the pressure as his tip struggled to enter your tight core. You clenched your teeth at the pain and sensation. You shut your eyes and squeezed his shoulders. The further he stretched you, the harder you squeezed his shoulders, nails digging into his skin. You winced as his full length entered you. You felt a large hand caress your cheek and you opened your eyes. You met a worried gaze, as he searched your face. “Are you okay? Am I hurting you?”

“No, it’s okay. I’m ready.” You nodded and he hesitated for a moment, then slowly began to pull out. He slid back in and your back arched at the pain and pleasure that filled your belly. His thrusts became even as you adjusted to his size. Jon moaned in pleasure when your nails ran down his back. His cock filled you whole. Your legs wrapped right around his waist, pushing him in as far as you could. You wanted to feel all of him, take all of him.

“Y/N,” he growled your name in your ear, his hot breath hitting your exposed skin. He kissed and sucked on the nape of your neck, causing a loud moan to escape your lips.

“Oh gods, Jon,” you whimpered, feeling a ball of sensation being to grow in your lower belly. The pleasure started to feel so overwhelming, you didn’t know if you could take it. Your hands pushed against his chest, not able to bear the sensation. Jon grabbed your wrists, softly pinning them to the bed, one of either side of your head. He picked up pace, you almost screamed at the pressure threatening to burst.

“Hearing you moan my name is the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.” His words made your toes curls and your back arch.

“Jon,” you moaned louder, wanting to say it over and over. He groaned, his grip on your wrists getting tighter.

“Say it again.” Your lip quivered with over stimulation. Your head was swimming in a mix of pleasure, not able to form any other thought than his name. He thrust into you harder than before, pushing the deepest he could. This won a scream of his name from your lips. Your eyes met his and they were full of passion and desire. His curls stuck to his forehead with sweat. “You’re so beautiful.” Those words sent you to your undoing. You felt yourself finally burst, waves of pleasure and shivers rushing up your body all the nerves in you going limp from stimulation. Only a few moments later, Jon pulled out, releasing onto your bare stomach.

Your eyes were closed, but you felt warm fabric brush over your skin. You opened them to see Jon cleaning his mess off of you. Once he was done, he left a trail off kisses from your bellybutton down to your bundle of nerves. You squeezed your thighs, not being able to handle any more. He smirked and collapsed next to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into him.

In this moment, nothing else mattered but the two of you, wrapped in each other’s arms, sharing a love that defied the rules of your world. You clung to each other, as if trying to imprint this moment into your memories, knowing that it would be all you had when the morning came.

Jon’s fingers gently stroked your hair, his heart still racing. Peace washed over you as your head rested on his chest.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice filled with emotion. “For giving me this. For being with me.”

Jon kissed the top of your head, his arms tightening around you. “I’ll always be with you,” he said softly. “No matter where I am. No matter what happens. You are a part of me.”

“And you, me,” you replied. You smiled against his chest, your heart filling with love. You had stolen a moment from the world, a moment that was yours and yours alone. Though the future was uncertain, and the outside world may never understand, you had this night. And for now, that had to be enough. It was enough.

[transform4u]

Absolutely love your stories (especially G2S). I am a young, gay man who works as a professional actor, largely in Shakespeare. There's a part of me, though, that wishes I got into another type of performance job: professional wrestling. Any chance of turning me into a cocky, uber-macho, douchey pro wrestler?

As you practice your lines, intoning, "Now I am alone. O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous that this player here," a sudden, piercing snaaaaappppp reverberates through your brain. The words on the page blur and morph before your eyes, the text twisting into an audacious proclamation: "Hark! Attend ye now, and heed my might, For I am the grand champion, in the fiercest fight. With rippling muscles and a gaze so grand, I stand alone, the mightiest in this land."

Your head throbs, a painful pulse echoing through your temples. “Ugh!” you exclaim, the words feeling foreign and absurd, "What the fuck is this shit?" watching in disbelief as the pages of your script flutter to the ground like discarded confetti. Your once slender frame, so familiar and comforting, now feels alien and grotesque.

The pain in your head intensifies, spreading to your limbs. You clutch your temples, desperate for relief, but instead, a bizarre transformation begins. Your body starts to stretch and bulge, muscles twitching and swelling with a relentless, throbbing ache. It’s as if your very form is rebelling, growing and expanding, reshaping itself into something both awe-inspiring and unnerving.

Before you, the mirror reflects a man of Herculean proportions. Your physique is a chiseled marvel of muscular splendor, each muscle honed from relentless, grueling workouts. Your thick biceps bulge like coiled serpents, veins snaking beneath the skin and pulsing with every boastful flex. Your pectorals, mountains of sculpted glory, strain against the tight fabric of your sleeveless, skin-tight shirt, daring the seams to burst with every breath. A washboard of abs gleams under the light, each segment defined with such precision it seems carved by a master sculptor.

Your face is a masterpiece of overconfident charm, with a square jaw and a smirk so smug it could melt steel. You’re clad in leather trunks that cling with an egotistical perfection, and boots polished to a mirror shine. Every stride you take exudes an aura of unrivaled bravado, as if the very air should feel privileged to share space with you.

Memories flood your mind, a parade of cocky triumphs and extravagant victories in the ring. You recall the roar of the crowd, the electrifying atmosphere of the arena. The weight of the championship belt, a symbol of your undeniable superiority, feels familiar around your waist. You remember the way you dominated every opponent, their struggles a mere footnote to your own grand narrative. The ring, once a stage for your craft, now serves as the arena where your ego reigns supreme.

You chuckle, a dumb, almost delirious laugh that escapes your lips. It’s a laugh of pure, unfiltered arrogance, as you bask in the glory of your new form. The absurdity of your past, the innocent pursuit of theatrical lines, feels like a distant memory now. You revel in the grandeur of your physical transformation, your every move imbued with the swagger and entitlement of a true champion.

With an arrogant grin, you roughly grab your crotch through your shorts, relishing the sweet sting of bruising your own palm on the bulging package within. "Mmmm fuck yeah, that's my boy," you rasp. "Gonna need those monster nuts to knock some sense into that skank's pussy."

A savage rage surges through you, fueled by the unrelenting need to assert dominance over everything in your path. Your ego balloons like a balloon, becoming an inflated sense of superiority and entitlement. You lick your lips, the saliva dripping down your chin. In an instant, all traces of empathy or reason flee your mind, replaced by pure, animalistic lust.

Your thoughts shift abruptly as a buxom redhead fills your head, her tight red lace panties and skimpy thong driving you wild. Memories of fucking this vapid bimbo backstage flood your consciousness. Her high-pitched moans echo in your ears, her tits bouncing wildly in your grip as you slam into her from behind again and again. You'd make her scream so loudly they'd have to muffle her with a mouthful of your dick!

Your fantasies run wild, conjuring up the depraved image of you tossing this vapid bachelorette onto your bed like a rag doll. She lets out a series of desperate, keening moans as you roughly yank down her scant clothing, exposing miles of creamy skin that you proceed to mark with hickies and bite marks, branding her as your bitch. Your hands paw clumsily at her nakedness, squeezing and groping with a mindless, animalistic hunger until you've reduced the girl to a mewling heap of neediness and desire. Without warning, you drive into her soaked cunt, immediately setting a brutal pace that has her squealing like the depraved little cumrag she is.

"God, her tight snatch is gripping me so good as I split her in two with my massive fucking tool. I bet the bitch loves getting destroyed like this - pounded into oblivion with my huge dick splitting her open…"

You feel like a monumental asshole, an insufferable prick encased in a gilded cage. A golden cross of arrogance wraps itself around your throat, choking the life out of any shred of empathy or humanity left within.

You let your mind drift to your glory days of mauling dumb fags on the wrestling mat, pummeling them until their teeth rattled on their skulls. The sick satisfaction of watching them fold and beg for mercy - ah, that was the real thrill! None of the groupies' attention or the money from selling merch matters compared to the sheer rush of putting simps in their place.

Your phone buzzes incessantly, spilling over with thirsty messages and snaps from horny women begging to be destroyed. "Tucker, I need your cock sooo bad," one filthy piece of ass texts back and forth.

All this validation only stokes the flames of your egotism higher. "That's right bitch, worship Tucker's cock like the fucking whore you are!" you bellow. The world is your oyster and everyone else better remember their place. This is YOUR domain - THEE Tucker, conquerer of cocksucking sluts!

[clarkeylesbian]

The Frog-Off

[Sypnosis : you and arthur attempt at the clay tiktok trend]

The camera turns on, and Arthur is grinning at it with his usual mix of smugness and charm. “Right, so!” he starts, his excitement barely contained. “Today, I’ve got a very special guest—my girlfriend, Y/N!” He gestures to the side of the frame.

The camera swivels to reveal you waving shyly. You’re already covered in a layer of clay because, true to Arthur’s style, you didn’t prepare at all before starting the intro.

“We’re diving into the clay modelling challenge that’s been blowing up on TikTok,” Arthur explains, picking up two lumps of green clay. “We’ll recreate a model we find online, and then you all get to vote on who did it better. But let me tell you, it’s going to be me.”

You fold your arms and raise an eyebrow. “You’ve never even touched clay before, Arthur.”

“It’s all about confidence, babe.”

Arthur pulls out his phone and shows it to the camera. The model you’ve chosen is a cute frog sitting on a lilypad. Simple enough, right?

Wrong.

“Alright,” Arthur says, squinting at the clay like he’s about to solve a complex maths problem. “Frog on a lilypad. This should be a piece of cake.”

You are already deep into your clay, focusing intently. “You say that now, but I’m already feeling like I’m failing this frog.”

The camera zooms in on your work, which resembles more of a squashed loaf of bread than a frog. Meanwhile, Arthur is still staring at his clay as if it’s the love of his life.

“You know,” Arthur muses, poking at the clay, “frogs are naturally lumpy. So, this is just me capturing their true texture.”

The camera pulls back to reveal Arthur’s creation: a round blob with legs sticking out at odd angles.

“I don’t know what that is,” you laugh, “but it’s definitely not a frog. It looks like a rejected Pokémon, bless.”

“It’s abstract,” Arthur defends. “You’ve got to feel the frog, not just mould it. This is art.”

“You seem more in love with your attempt at a frog than me,” you joke as Arthur kisses you on the head.

“I could never.”

You try not to laugh as you add eyes to your frog, which only makes it look high. Arthur plops two giant clay lumps onto his frog’s face, but they immediately fall off.

“Well, that’s just offensive,” he grumbles, trying to squish them back on.

There’s a brief pause before you point at the mess with a grin. “R.I.P. to your frog.”

Arthur shrugs. “We still have the lilypad. This is where I can shine. I can make circles.”

He grabs another lump of clay, slams it down on the table, and flattens it with his palm. “Behold, the lilypad.”

The camera pans to reveal something that looks more like a deflated pizza dough than a lilypad. You’re carefully shaping yours into a leaf-like form, too focused to notice Arthur’s attempt.

Arthur dramatically announces, “Oh, babe, get ready to be amazed.”

He proudly sets his “lilypad” on the table and places his pancake-like frog on top. It stays put, though it doesn’t exactly look stable.

You glance over and start laughing, trying to keep your own frog intact. “Is that… supposed to look like that?”

Arthur looks at his creation proudly.

As he adjusts his frog, one of its legs suddenly breaks off. Arthur throws his hands up in mock defeat. “Well, it seems like my frog’s had a bit of an accident.”

[] []

With your frogs and lilypads (if you can even call them that) side by side, you both step back to judge the results.

“Alright,” Arthur says, rubbing his hands together like a game show host. “It’s time to compare. Let’s see who's frog reigns supreme.”

You both lean in to examine the creations. Arthur’s frog looks like it’s had a rough day: half-melted, one eye missing and legs that are on the verge of breaking again.

Your frog isn’t perfect, but at least it’s recognizably a frog. It’s lumpy with one leg too big, and the lilypad looks like it was made from Play-Doh, but there’s a certain charm in its beady eyes.

“Okay, I’ll admit it,” Arthur says, trying to hold back laughter. “Your frog is.. fine. It’s decent. But mine has character. It’s got a story. It’s been through some things.”

You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Your frog looks like it’s seen the apocalypse.”

Arthur places a dramatic hand on his heart. “Exactly. It’s got emotional depth. My frog feels things.”

You both crack up as Arthur picks up his frog, and the legs fall off once more.

“Well,” Arthur shrugs, holding up the dismembered frog, “I think we all know who the real winner is here.” He turns to the camera. “But you guys, comment below! Who do you think made the better frog?”

You shake your head, still grinning. “Clearly me”

The camera zooms in dramatically on Arthur’s clay disaster as he whispers, “Art.”

“If you enjoyed this chaos,” Arthur says, trying to sound professional despite the mess, “don’t forget to like, subscribe, and hit the bell. And if you want more couple challenge videos—”

You jump in, “Please don’t make us do more clay.”

Arthur chuckles. “Yeah, we’re officially banned from clay. But seriously, let us know what you want to see next.”

“Vote for mi-” you attempt to say before the video cuts off.

[note: I've never made a fic before, so sorry it's not the best!]

[serenaisavillain]

The Veiled Serenade

Summary: Prince Aemond and his brother Aegon traverse amidst the murky depths of Flea Bottom, where darkness reigns supreme. A web of intrigue is woven, fraught with forbidden desires and veiled intentions. As alliances shift and secrets unravel, the stage is set for an ardent tale of power, betrayal, and illicit love affairs in the heart of King's Landing.

Warnings: Contains sensitive themes, including imagery of graphic violence, as well as depictions of sexual assault and harassment. The story contains explicit language and mature themes, including substance abuse and addiction. Authors Note: I'd love to hear your thoughts on the fic. Word Count: 1.2k Series: II

Aemond One-Eye.

HE COULD HEAR the hushed voices all around him. The prying eyes. The second son of Viserys and Alicent sat staring down into his piss-yellow chalice of ale. His brother Aegon had whispered into his ear at supper that they should get up to some mischief, and Aemond knowing better than to let him go alone, indulged him. There they sat in the belly of Flea Bottom, in the dim light of a tavern surrounded by cretin.

Flies buzzed around sloppily made pies on dingy round tables.

His eye gazed upon the filthy wooden floor covered in spilt ale, retch, piss, and gods knew what else.

Aemond's garments stuck to his sweat-slicked skin, making them practically translucent, and his flowing hair was reduced to damp waves. He was exposed.

The jabbering was incessant and the young prince's ears ached.

"Are you not happy that we found this place?" Aegon slurred. His wrist twisted as he spoke, his ale throwing itself over the rim of the chalice and onto the table.

Aemond cleared his throat and cast his eye towards the small stage in the centre of the room.

A musician with a mandolin stood there plucking a solemn tune.

And there he saw her. A girl no older than him of nine and one, glided in behind the instrumentalist.

Her tawny skin glistened like a bronze coin in the vicious heat of King's Landing. She was statuesque, her frame draped in a thin, silk frock. Her hair sat above her head, a crown of leaves, their branches reaching up and out.

He observed her closer, his chest rising and falling.

Her heart-shaped face accessorized by her dark eyes and long eyelashes. Her broad nose cast shadows on her cheeks in the candlelight, and her plump lips appeared shining as though they were drenched in honey.

"As wind grows cold this winters eve

The babe will cry

The thief will steal

For hunger robs them both of joy

Their empty bellies whine and roar..."

The prince's eye twitched.

Her voice was silvery, each word she chanted clawing itself into his mind.

His heart clenched.

"Excuse me dear brother," Aemond muttered.

Aegon smirked at him.

"Like what you see eh?" He taunted.

"I just need to take a piss," the one-eyed boy huffed and walked off.

The moon was pregnant in the sky, its halo casting a glow over the white-haired prince.

He inhaled.

Slightly chilled air filled his aching lungs.

He could only imagine the night on dragon-back. How the heavens would part for him and Vhagar. The wind whirling through his mane.

"I take it you did not like my song my prince?" He heard a honeyed voice.

The prince swallowed.

"I feel indifferent towards your serenading" He said refusing to turn around and meet her eyes.

She chuckled.

The girl smoothed out her garment and took a step towards him.

"I do not wish to hear such slanders," He turned facing her, eyebrows raised, eyes widened and nostrils flared.

He saw the glimmer of mischief in her amber eyes before she opened her mouth.

"Slanders must be false to be slanders my prince..." she retorted with a smirk on her shimmering lips.

The young man rolled his eyes.

"That's not a very royal gesture," she gasped, placing her soft fingers on her plump cheek.

"Forgive me Lady..."

"Waters," she curtsied.

"Ah... it makes sense now."

The young woman arched her eyebrow.

"And what exactly makes sense?" She mocked.

"You're a bastard."

She slapped him.

Her soft palm licked his face as quick as lightning struck.

His eyes darkened and a smile crept on his face before he caught her wrist.

"I must behest you... do not do that again." He said lowly.

The girl laughed dryly.

"It is a good thing I am not your servant." She spat before boxing him again.

The prince grunted behind bared teeth. Taking her other hand and pushing her smaller body into the shadowy side of the stone tavern.

Her breath was ragged as she struggled against him.

He smelled the perfume of her hair; peach, summer fruits, and white flowers. He inhaled the oil of her skin, a voluptuous bunch of spices, and allowed himself to let his eye flutter close for less than a minute.

The doors of the tavern burst open and out poured two men in search of someone.

Their footsteps furious against the moist dirt below them.

"Y/N?!" A man hollered. Aemond recognized him as the musician on stage earlier with the mandolin.

He was tall and hulking, his face covered by a full beard and his hair black and of neck length.

"Aemond." his brother slurred, before swaying into the direction of his white-haired kin.

He was laughing.

"You filthy dog. I knew you saw something you liked... perhaps we can both..." He rasped.

"Fin!" the girl whined in protest.

"Get off of her!" the musician yelled.

Aegon laughed so hard he thought he might fall over.

"First come first serve. My brother spotted her first. Maybe you'll get your turn after we've finished." he spat, itching at his sword.

Aemond loosened his grip on the girl's clothes.

"I am not a whore!" She cried attempting to shuffle past.

Aegon laughed again.

"No, no. Of course not... what do you prefer to be called these days?" He raised his eyebrows.

The other man's fist tightened.

"Whether you wear a crown or not matters little. You owe her an apology, else you'll find your guts spilled from belly to balls." The tall figure grumbled.

Aemond grabbed his brother pulling him as he walked.

"Did you hear what he-"

"Shut up! you've had too much to drink." The sober brother responded.

AEMOND PACED AROUND HIS CHAMBERS.

Y/N... he thought.

The wind was cold tonight, blowing past the Dornish silk curtains and against his pale skin.

Perhaps he was too harsh with her.

He rubbed his forehead.

And his brother Aegon... he had made a fool of himself once again. His subjects were never fond of him, but now their family was surely falling out of the common folk's favour.

The boy lay back on the menagerie of pillows that sat atop the stack of goose-feather mattresses he called his bed, picturing Y/N's tear-stained face.

He had never stooped so low as to put his hands on a woman.

How in the seven hells would he make this right?

He had no idea.

The banging on his door startled him, and he rushed to clothe himself after stumbling to his feet.

Behind the heavy Valerian steel door loomed his mother, all five foot five of her.

[welcometololaland]

almost uploaded a picture of my bank statement instead of this header! happy days!

thanks for the tags @hippolotamus @kiwiana-writes @happiness-of-the-pursuit @rmd-writes

@nancygillianmvp @terramous @tellmegoodbye @freneticfloetry @beautifulhigh

@orchidscript @myheartalivewrites and @strandnreyes (don't think that was a real tag but i'm taking it anyway to force you to love me).

1. How many works do you have on Ao3?

49 (last time it was 46 but i feel like that isn't enough of a difference? disappointed in myself dfhskjh)

2. What's your Ao3 bodycount word count?

1,119,086 which does include some co-writes, but I also have around 200k of unposted WIP in my google docs so i'm counting it (including a fully written fic - someone put their hands around my neck and force me to edit it PLEASE).

3. Which fandoms do you write for?

red white and royal blue, 911 lone star, top gun maverick (flirting with winter's orbit always)

4. Top 5 fics by kudos?

the order of these has changed but not the identity:

Speak for Yourself (RWRB) (you know when eminem said he'd never be able to top My Name Is? this is my version of that)

Fifty First Dates (RWRB) (oodie agenda reigns supreme)

The RIng-In (Lone Star) (otherwise, lone star is in danger of being eviscerated from this top 5 lmao)

(Not) A Cinderella Story (RWRB) (NDAs are hot, apparently)

Cursed is a State of Mind (RWRB) (cursed caffeine is the main drawcard let's not lie)

5. Do you respond to comments?

i try my absolute best to. i am currently really behind and i apologise for that (the problem is, i reply to comments before i post anything and i haven't posted anything in ages).

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

serious answer - Contaminated

my answer - oh baby i'm a fool for you because we never find out if they actually watch twilight and that's a damn shame

7. What is the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

literally everything else - i don't really do open endings or sad endings! in the words of the great philosopher, skepta: "nah, that's not me."

8. Do you get hate on fics?

i used to, but i haven't in ages! thank god for that.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

yes, although i have to say i've been moving away from pwp lately. i feel my best smut is written into longer fics where the sex serves a plot or characterisation purpose within the frame of the overarching narrative.

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

yes, a RWRB/LS but i never finished it. ALTA is a veronica mars inspired tarlos fic which kind of feels like a crossover at times.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

not to my knowledge :)

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

yes! Phonography (Lone Star) has been translated, as has Baby, Make Your Move (Lone Star) and Warm Whispers (Lone Star). I'm very grateful to the incredible people who have made these translations happen - you are so talented.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic?

yes, many with @dustratcentral. I also wrote a chapter of a co-written fic with a whole bunch of incredible RWRB authors called never the same twice.

@rmd-writes and I have created (Un)Professional Services and (upcoming) Call Me (By Your Name).

The Rainbow Fish was co-written with @strandnreyes.

I love co-writing so much and I am always open to anyone who wants to give it a go!

14. What's your all time favourite ship?

me + my unposted wips.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

probably the aforementioned crossover which was apparently also my answer last time.

16. What are your writing strengths?

i'm allergic to giving myself compliments but i would say maybe dialogue/banter and worldbuilding.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

keeping things short. also, exposition.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

kinda scared to because i don't speak any other languages and i'm so hesitant to annoy my very talented multi-lingual friends with my annoying questions.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

we don't talk about that.

20. Favourite fic you've written?

probably still Love Game because the experience was just so amazing and i never wanted to stop writing it.

heaps of people have already done this so leaving an open tag and also a couple of suggestions under the cut but apologies if you've already participated or been tagged 7 million times:

@bonheur-cafe @theghostofashton @thebumblecee @indomitable-love @eclectic-sassycoweyes

@tailoredshirt @vineofroses @liminalmemories21 @mikibwrites @birdclowns

@ladytessa74 @basilsunrise @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @rosedavid @sanjuwrites

@alrightbuckaroo @three-drink-amy @marjansmarwani @dumbpeachjuice @doublel27

@lemonlyman-dotcom @blueink3 @ambiguouspenny @clottedcreamfudge @emmalostinwonderland

@sail-not-drift @inexplicablymine @celeritas2997 @cricketnationrise @reyesstrand

@goodways @carlos-in-glasses @heartstringsduet @sunshinestrand @sherryvalli

[notroosterbradshaw]

ahhh maybe 21 with rooster? 21- Having your lover list everything they're insecure about, and responding with gentle caresses, kisses, and compliments about those areas.

21. Having your lover list everything they’re insecure about, and responding with gentle caresses, kisses, and compliments about those areas.

Nonny, I'm writing this after a few drinks, so my mind is wild. Trying to keep it above board tho. Ladies' night, cock talk, dancing, drinks. Rough thots. All those cheeky things you may talk about when out with your mates. Then fluffy stuff. Enjoy x

Hearing the front door open and a few choice curse words, Rooster chuckled quietly to himself, pausing the game. Not too concerned, he already knew his Phillies won, but it was nice to watch the game in peace. "Baby, you good?" he called.

"Oh, you're still up."

"Have the weekend off, I'm ragin', babydoll," he joked. Hearing a thud, he cringed and asked again if you were okay.

"I'm good," you confirmed. He heard the sound of items hitting the wall - two, your heels, he bet - and you appeared a moment later, hair wildly sexy, eyes a little bloodshot and a wide grin on your face. "Hi, gorgeous."

He raised an eyebrow, giving you his attention. "Hi, babydoll. How was your night?" he bit back a grin.

"Really good," you told him.

"Lots of dancing?"

"Yeah. My feet are aching. My back is completely out of alignment from those heels."

"I could have come and got you," he reminded you.

"Shared an Uber with the girls. I knew you wanted to watch the game, it's all good."

"Thank you," he said softly, his eyes watching you move towards him. "Catch up on all the gossip?"

"We don't gossip, we state facts."

"My apologies," he laughed. "Dick talk?"

"Always. Yours reigns supreme, baby and everyone knows it."

Rooster winked. "As they should."

"But they will never really know."

"No," he agreed. "Only you."

"I'm very, very lucky," you told him with a grin.

"I'm glad to hear you say that," he murmured, his voice a little rougher as he tried to keep his amusement to himself. "You can keep stroking my ego though. If you want to, of course," he begged, teasingly.

"You stroke your own ego just fine, Bradshaw."

He shrugged modestly. Who was he to argue?

You laughed, stretching. "You want me to wax lyrical about your cock?"

"Haiku form, please?" he demanded, knowing the impossible wasn't about to happen.

"Okay, lemme try..." you inhaled, trying to remember what the fuck a haiku was. Bradley chewed his lip, trying not to lose it. You weren't drunk, nowhere near it, but you were certainly looser than usual. He loved that for you. You didn't go out with your friends as often as you should, and knew you revelled in nights just like this. "Okay, okay," you grinned. "Ready? I think I got this."

"I don't think you do, but be my guest, baby," he watched you take the floor.

"Rooster is his name," you counted the five syllables on your fingers, he licked his lips, actually about to lose it. "And he has a six-foot frame. And nine inches hard."

He cackled. "You are insane, I'm very impressed," he stood up and greeted you with a warm kiss. "You tell everyone you meet about the nine inches, right?" he teased.

"I rounded up," you reminded him. He didn't argue but pouted anyway. It wasn't a generous roundup and the locker room gifted his Rooster for it. "But usually I don't even offer a name. Just tell everyone my sexy naval aviator husband has a huge cock. You wouldn't believe how many often I am asked how I'm walking straight," you reminded him.

"All right, all right," he laughed, his dimples deep and bold. "People don't need to hear anything after nine inches, baby."

"Bradley Bradshaw, you are so full of yourself."

"Sure am, I'm the 1%. I got it all. Perfect partner, perfect house, perfect job - " he paused. Your glare told him he was incorrect. "Even if you don't agree and I'm away far too long," he held his palms up and rested them on your shoulders, leaning down to kiss you and whispered, "Sorry, I give, I give. Did you eat?"

"We ate, still hungry though. Did you leave any pizza?" you asked hopefully, as he hoisted you into his arms and fell back against the couch, you perched perfectly on his lap.

"Of course."

"You're the perfect man."

He scoffed, knowing how untrue it was. "Thank you, but you know I'm not."

You kissed him and kissed him thoroughly. He was a tender kisser, or at least knew that was how you needed it. "I missed you, lover. I love being with my friends, but this is so much better. Don't tell them though."

"Never, sweetheart. Your secret is safe with me," he pressed a kiss between your brows. "You look very sexy."

"My feet hurt, my back hurts, I think my make up is melting like The Joker."

He grinned. "Just how I like it," he teased.

"You're such a pig," you giggled, resting you head against his clavicle, appreciating the shirtlessness. His cologne invaded your senses, his skin hot, as always.

"Do you have any idea..." you murmured quietly, hiking up the skirt of your dress, to sit comfortably. Your hands rested on his clavicle, pushing in to massage his strong traps. He licked his lips at your advances and eased you both back against the back of his seat, preparing for anything you were about to give him. "Do you know, you probably do, just how sexy you are to me?" you asked, your face staring intently at his.

He rolled his eyes and sighed, a humoured smirk gracing his features. "So, you’re booking in to the optometrist next week, I see?" he chuckled darkly as you wriggled to rest on the hefty muscles of his quads. He wasn't surprised to hear your breathy gasp. You'd had a few drinks with your friends after work, leaving him all alone at home to his own devices (he watched his team play baseball, he was fucking fine) but you were fairly sober, he knew when you were drunk, this was not it. You may have been a little more turned on and chattier than usually though and he was very pleased with this.

"Look at your beautiful face," you told him, holding his jaw in your palms. "You are just so gorgeous, Bradley."

He made a face, not quite believing you. He knew what he looked like, he knew the scars that marred his skin and you knew how self-conscious he was about them. He'd tried lotions and potions, anything to help reduce the scarring. Laser too, but nothing really faded the wiry marks from a mid-air incident when he was a young pilot. He was lucky to live, and walked away with a few cuts, scratches and pretty banged up. A lot more than his father was ever allowed and that’s why he tried not to make too much of it.

“You know I hate them,” he lowered his eyes, embarrassed. A bit angry at his lot.

But you knew. He knew you knew how unsure of himself they made him feel. You never made a big deal of them. They were such an innate part of him, and he never spoke of the incident. You only learned about it during a conversation with Natasha. She was so surprised to learn you didn't know that she figured she overstepped the mark. She told you later that Rooster was so angry that she'd told you what had happened and hoped it hadn't caused any problems for you. It was early days then, when he'd do anything for your attention, sing, crow, buy all your drinks, shoo other suitors away.

You were in love with him the moment he introduced himself. He was a young aviator in port so far from his home, uniform a little tight from the burgeoning muscles he was clearly working on. Moustache that was growing in. His voice roped you in immediately as you shared a quiet beer. You'd lost your heart to him the second he introduced himself by callsign and you laughed at him. He blushed so redly from his chest to the tips of his ears. You were enamoured right then and there. You were so proud of him but you waited the day he said he would he retiring and keeping his feet planted on the earth.

Those days weren’t as close as you wanted though.

“I love every single part of you,” you reiterated. “These would never make me love you less, Bradley.”

He only murdered a gun in reply.

You lifted his gaze and traced every blemish, and kissed his chin. You thumbed his upper lip and the scar across his cleft, kissing his lips tenderly. "I love you, Bradley Bradshaw. Scars and all," you devoutly gave him everything he deserved.

You knew you words didn't soothe his disappointment but he'd be lying to say that each time your sweet lips gave love to the raised skin, it sent shockwaves through his system, the nerve endings so sensitive and it made him feel invincible.

But it didn't change what he looked at in the mirror.

You inhaled as you kissed his Adam's Apple, the longest of his scars. He swallowed roughly, his palms knotting in your hair. "Fuck, that feels so damn good, baby,” his voice lower and deeper than before.

"I know, baby," you said, trailing gentle kisses across his neck, towards the gnarliest of his scars on his shoulder.

"Thank you, babydoll," he said softly.

"I know you hate your scars, but they absolutely take nothing away from who you are. You strong, sweet, so smart, a smart ass," you told him, kissing his full lips as he resisted smiling. "And so fucking sexy, and honestly, nothing you can tell me will ever make me think differently."

SEND ME A PROMPT, I’LL WRITE YOU A DRABBLE.

A/N: the tag list no longer exists. To keep up to date, give @notroosterbradshaw-library a follow x

[quantomeno]

My ranking of the 'And that person is you!' scenes from Professor Layton

Ah, the iconic 'finger point' scene. They are Layton's trademark and it's so much fun when you know it's about to happen. You can feel the tension build.

But these moments are not all equal. Which scene will reign supreme?

Because these scenes involve big revelations and plot twists, this list will be rife with spoilers for both trilogies and the movie.

7. Azran Legacy

Firstly, the audience already knows who it is and no one else in the room could be it even if we didn't know. The other issue is that it's just got no build-up: Layton gives his spiel and then does the point. The room is cramped and there's not much drama or flair. By far the greatest problem though is that this felt like a side story. Bloom himself felt like wasted potential in some respects, but this whole mystery didn't seem all that important in the grand scheme of things. I honestly don't remember it that well and I am pretty sure he only stole a few artefacts that weren't plot relevant. It feels like they just wanted a pointing scene and this was the only logical place to put it.

6. Lost Future/Unwound Future

It is far too short, but the reveal has much more heft than Azran Legacy's. It is somewhat obvious that it's Future Luke once you realise what's happening, because only Don Paulo could be the other option, but the Clive revelation is still a massive twist. I give this scene bonus points because I like Clive's reaction to the accusation too.

5. Eternal Diva

I like this one, but it also feels a bit tacked on. The 'who has the key?' thing feels like it doesn't need deduction because they could just check everyone's pockets (and she's literally just holding it), but what saves it is that it ties into the bigger mystery and the revelation of Janice/Melina's identity. It feels impactful by the end, even if the initial tension feels overblown.

4. Miracle Mask

This one feels a fraction lacking in drama, but it makes up for it with its position/significance in the story. The wind blowing at the pivotal moment adds some nice flair. I would say it's also quite a shocking twist. It is what I would consider the baseline 'finger point' scene because it contains all the key features that make a good one, but I just don't think it has the same sensation of suspense that it needs to rank higher. Its execution is not as great as some.

3. Curious Village

This one lacks the trademark phrase, and it is also obvious who's the 'criminal element', but it makes up for it with the atmosphere of the room: it gives a classic murder mystery vibe, where all the key players have been gathered to learn the truth. It is scenes like this that makes me wish CV was a more traditional murder mystery because it has all the hallmarks of it. I am tempted to put this one below MM, but I feel this one is a touch more elegant and I value that.

2. Spectre's Call/Last Specter

This is one of the few times the game manages to surprise you with the revelation and has actively worked to make it seem like it was someone else. The foreshadowing of Doland, out of focus, standing behind Clarke, and Luke staring at his father, fully believing his own dad has been terrorising the town... and then how the camera pans from Clarke to Doland. It is a cleverly laid out scene and it has a great feeling of drama.

Pandora's Box/Diabolical Box

I could watch this scene on repeat forever. It is gorgeous. It also gives classic murder mystery vibes which I love. The suave coolness of Layton stirring his tea and calmly telling Chelmey he's go thee wrong man: perfect. Everyone's shocked reactions are fun and add to the tension. The pause after Layton's reasoning, and the shots of those involved leaves us with a delectable moment of suspense. Every shot is framed perfectly. And the revelation: it is not really surprising given we see Flora get kidnapped and she just made the comment that gave Layton the proof he needed, but it is still such an outrageous idea that Flora killed Dr Schrader and stole the box. The shots of everyone during the aforementioned pause at least try to create the illusion that it could be someone else. It also resolves one of the earliest mysteries of the game. The cherry on the cake is Luke's reaction (I love him so much). It is moments like this that make me want to put PB as my favourite game, but alas... I love LF too much.

[yeolsaintlaurent]

Nocturnal Reverie ch.10 [PCY]

pairing - chanyeol x fem reader

genre - mature, smut, angst

themes - power imbalance, romance, crime, justice, class divide, politics, sex

synopsis - In the sprawling, dystopian city of Emberhaven, where power and corruption reign supreme, the lives of two unlikely individuals collide in a tale of passion, intrigue, and moral reckoning. Chanyeol, an enigmatic and wealthy scion of the city's elite, finds himself captivated by the elusive Y/N, a cunning and resourceful thief who navigates the treacherous underworld of Emberhaven. Their first encounter, sparked by a chance meeting in a luxurious club called The Velvet Lounge, sets the stage for a whirlwind romance amidst a backdrop of crime, politics, and danger.

warnings - none for this chapter

A/N - Might be the longest chapter yet. But I had so much fun writing this chapter. I wanted it to seem like you were in the room, witnessing it irl. It took a lot of brain power, but I would like to believe that this chapter basically wrote itself. As always, let me know what you thought. Is this the beginning of the end? Are all the characters finally going to converge, making the following chapters a compelling read? Read on to find out, my lovelies ~~

Chapter 10: Glimmers of recognition

The grand ballroom exuded opulence, lit by the soft glow of chandeliers resembling crystalline constellations. Gilded mirrors reflected the elegance of the elite attendees, their gowns and tailored suits creating a tapestry of wealth and influence. Fragrances of exotic perfumes wafted through the air, mingling with the rustle of silk and the hum of quiet conversations.

Live music cascaded through the ballroom, the quartet weaving classical melodies with a modern twist. The haunting strains of a cello and the ethereal notes of a piano created an atmosphere of refined indulgence, a backdrop to the intricate dance of intrigue and ambition.

Chanyeol, dressed in a sharp suit that complemented his towering figure, moved through the crowd with a calculated ease. His eyes, sharp and observant, scanned the room for any signs of the elusive figures that often lurked in the city's shadows.

As he neared the center of the grand ballroom, a sudden hush fell over the crowd. Intrigued whispers passed through the guests, and Chanyeol felt the shift in the atmosphere. Turning toward the source of the disturbance, he was met with a sight he hadn't anticipated.

There, amidst the sea of elegantly dressed attendees, stood Kai, or Jongin, as he knew him to be. Dressed in a tailored suit that accentuated his lean frame, Kai's presence commanded attention. His eyes, dark and enigmatic, scanned the room with a mixture of confidence and detachment.

Chanyeol's heart quickened. The tension in the air was palpable as their eyes locked from across the room. The unspoken history between them crackled like electricity, and the weight of unresolved questions hung in the balance.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze. The distant hum of conversation faded into the background, leaving only the echo of their shared past. Chanyeol's mind raced with conflicting emotions – duty, suspicion, and an undercurrent of a connection that refused to be severed.

Chanyeol engaged in polite banter with fellow attendees, all while keeping a watchful eye on Kai. The atmosphere buzzed with a sense of exclusivity, each conversation veiled in layers of hidden motives and social intricacies. Amid the sophisticated gala, Chanyeol approached a well-dressed acquaintance, subtly inquiring about Kai.

"Excuse me," Chanyeol said, turning to the gentleman, "Do you know who that is?" He discreetly gestured towards Kai, who held court in a small gathering.

The man glanced over, his eyes narrowing in recognition. "That's Kai. A respected dealer in vintage cars, collectibles, and regal jewelry. The crème de la crème seek him out for his expertise. A man of impeccable taste and discretion. Created a name for himself about six years ago. No one knows where he came from, but he sure did manage to have them wrapped around his finger. Always kept it as a rule to never be explicitly involved with the illegal activities his customers deal with. Maintained an untainted business ever since."

Chanyeol absorbed the information, a thoughtful expression on his face. Armed with this knowledge, he returned to the unfolding drama of the gala, where his past and present were converging in unexpected ways.

Amidst the glittering assembly, Kai moved with a quiet confidence. He effortlessly commanded attention. The crowd swarmed around him, a sea of faces swooning over the man of refined tastes. His charm was palpable as he engaged in conversations, each word a carefully chosen note in the symphony of the gala.

As Kai effortlessly mingled, Chanyeol observed from afar, his sharp gaze tracking the ebb and flow of the crowd around Kai. The social elite gravitated toward him, their conversations a harmonious blend of admiration and curiosity. Kai  navigated the sea of faces with an ease that hinted at a familiarity with the intricacies of this world.

Kai observed Chanyeol inconspicuously. He knew Chanyeol would be here, his presence a deliberate move. The air between them crackled with unspoken tension as their eyes met across the ballroom. Ever so perceptive, he locked eyes with Chanyeol, reading him like an open book.

The quartet's music became a subtle backdrop to this silent exchange, the tension escalating with each passing note. Conversations swirled around them, the elite attendees oblivious to the intricate dance of shadows playing out in their midst.

Kai, aware of Chanyeol's gaze, maintained a composed exterior, yet his eyes betrayed a watchful awareness. There was an unspoken acknowledgment between them, a recognition of the shared history that bound them, and the secrets that lingered beneath the surface.

Chanyeol continued his discrete observations. Kai's interactions were layered with intrigue, his conversations veiled in mystery. It was a game they had played before, but tonight, the stakes were higher, the dance more intricate.

As the quartet's music reached a crescendo, the tension between Chanyeol and Kai lingered in the air. The ballroom, a stage for the unfolding drama, held its breath as the two figures moved in a delicate dance of shadows. The night wore on, each passing moment a step closer to the revelation of hidden truths.

Chanyeol, torn between the allure of the gala and the need for answers, couldn't help but be drawn into the gravitational pull of Kai's orbit. The tension between them simmered beneath the surface. Feeling the weight of the past, he decided to approach the epicenter of the gala where Kai held court. He weaved through the elegant throng, his eyes never leaving Kai's figure. The air buzzed with anticipation as he neared, the orchestra now transitioning to a vibrant waltz that infused the atmosphere with renewed energy.

Kai, sensing Chanyeol's approach, turned to face him with an air of nonchalance. The exchange was subtle, a nod of acknowledgment that spoke volumes. The symphony of the waltz played on, casting a spell over the ballroom, encapsulating the drama unfolding between the two old friends.

As Chanyeol finally stood before Kai, the two locked eyes in a silent dialogue. Conversations around them blurred into a distant hum, the world narrowing down to the charged space they occupied. The unspoken tension between them demanded resolution.

"You certainly know how to make an entrance," Chanyeol quipped, a wry smile playing on his lips. The banter emerged effortlessly.

Kai replied with a smirk, "Old habits die hard, Loey. I've always enjoyed a bit of theatrics."

The atmosphere around them crackled with the intensity of their exchange, the weight of untold stories hanging in the air. The gala continued its elegant rhythm, but in their bubble, time seemed to stand still.

Chanyeol, probing yet cautious, ventured, "It's been a while, Jongin. High school feels like a lifetime ago. I hear you go by Kai now."

Kai's eyes bore into Chanyeol's, a glint of mystery behind the veneer of sophistication. "Indeed. Life takes unexpected turns, doesn't it?"

"What brings you to an event like this, Jongin" Chanyeol inquired, his voice carrying a subtle edge.

Kai flashed a sly smile. "The same thing that brings everyone – connections," he replied, his tone light and banter-filled.

"Connections? Or business?" Chanyeol pressed, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"A bit of both. You should try it sometime," Kai teased, his words hanging in the air like a veiled challenge.

Shifting gears, Chanyeol delved into more direct territory. "What's your trade these days?" he inquired, genuinely curious.

Kai, the picture of nonchalance, responded, "Vintage cars, collectibles, and regal jewelry. The finer things."

Chanyeol, having heard whispers about Kai's prowess, couldn't help but acknowledge, "Heard you're the best in the game."

Kai's eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. "Rumors. But I do like to maintain a certain reputation."

"A clean reputation?" Chanyeol probed, skepticism etching his expression.

Kai leaned in slightly, his words a playful whisper. "As clean as the driven snow. Drama doesn't suit my business style."

Their exchange held a subtext, a subtle dance of veiled truths and guarded confessions. Chanyeol couldn't shake the feeling that Kai held more cards in this intricate game than he did. The mystery of Kai's disappearance and reappearance gnawed at the edges of his curiosity.

With a nod toward the crowd, Chanyeol inquired, "What brings you back into the limelight, Jongin? And with such flair, might I add."

Kai leaned in, his voice a low murmur, "You, my old friend, might find the answer in the shadows you're so adept at navigating."

Before Chanyeol could press further, a ripple of applause signaled the end of the waltz. The moment, pregnant with unspoken revelations, dissolved into the rhythm of the gala. Kai, maintaining his enigmatic aura, excused himself with a polite nod.

As Chanyeol watched Kai disappear into the glittering crowd, he couldn't shake the feeling that the shadows of their shared history concealed more than they revealed. The ballroom, now ablaze with conversations and music, held the echoes of a reunion that had only scratched the surface of the enigma that was Kai.

Kai seamlessly merged into the crowd, a figure of intrigue that drew the attention of the elite attendees. The whispers of admiration followed him like a wake as he navigated through the sea of opulence.

The socialites, adorned in their most exquisite attire, subtly jockeyed for Kai's attention. His magnetic presence, combined with an air of mystery, turned him into a coveted jewel in the ballroom's glittering crown.

A group of elegantly dressed women approached Kai, their eyes shimmering with admiration. They engaged him in animated conversation, laughter and flirtation blending into the rich tapestry of the gala. Kai, the consummate charmer, effortlessly reciprocated, his smiles holding a hint of mischief.

Chanyeol, observing from a distance, felt a twinge of nostalgia. This was the 'Jongin' he remembered, the charismatic friend who effortlessly navigated social circles. Yet, there was an undeniable transformation – an evolution from the carefree high school days to a man who now held court in the circles of power.

Kai's eyes, scanning the room, found Chanyeol's gaze. Their eyes locked momentarily, an unspoken understanding passing between them. Chanyeol wondered how much of their shared history Kai carried with him, and if he, too, felt the weight of unresolved questions.

As the night unfolded, Kai effortlessly glided from one conversation to another, leaving an indelible impression on everyone he encountered. Whispers of admiration and curiosity followed in his wake, painting him as an elusive figure draped in an aura of mystique.

The orchestra shifted its tune, signaling the commencement of another dance. Kai, ever the master of ceremonies, gracefully invited a distinguished lady to join him on the floor. The duo swirled in a choreographed dance, captivating the onlookers with their effortless elegance.

Chanyeol, leaning against a pillar, observed Kai with a mix of admiration and wariness. The dance seemed like a metaphor for their complex relationship – a series of graceful moves on the surface, concealing the intricacies of their uncharted history.

Unable to shake off the lingering tension from his encounter with Kai at the gala, he decided to step out of the opulent ballroom. The air outside was crisp, a stark contrast to the heated atmosphere within. He made his way through the grand entrance, casting a final glance over his shoulder as the rhythmic melodies faded into the night.

As he traversed the moonlit courtyard, Chanyeol couldn't shake the feeling that Kai's presence lingered, a ghostly echo in the corridors of his memory. He quickened his pace, determined to unravel the enigma that had resurfaced from his past.

The distant echo of the gala began to fade, replaced by the rhythmic hum of the urban night. Retrieving his car from the valet, Chanyeol drove through the empty streets, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The city skyline sprawled before him, a glittering tapestry of lights that mirrored the myriad thoughts racing through Chanyeol's mind.The city lights painted fleeting glimpses of clarity on his face, revealing the furrowed brow of a man grappling with the shadows of his past. The city's nocturnal pulse throbbed around him as the cab weaved through labyrinthine streets.

As he neared his home, the anticipation in the air grew palpable. Every step felt like an echo, each passing moment a prelude to the imminent confrontation with Kai. The car slowed to a halt, and Chanyeol, drawing a steadying breath, stepped into the night.

In the quietude of his home, Chanyeol's thoughts were a tempest of uncertainty. The revelation of Kai's presence had cast a web of doubt, intertwining the threads of past and present. He pondered the significance of Kai's connection to Y/N, a connection veiled in secrecy and half-truths.

The door creaked open, a portal to the unknown, and Chanyeol stepped into the dimly lit interior. A figure emerged from the shadows, stepping into the soft glow of light. It was Kai, his expression a mask that betrayed little of the tumult within. Chanyeol` was taken aback, as he wondered how in the heck did Kai manage to get in his home. He thought he was still at the gala where he last saw him. 

Chanyeol's gaze bore into Kai's, searching for answers in the depths of those familiar eyes. The silence between them held the weight of unspoken history, a narrative that begged to be unraveled. Kai, breaking the quietude, spoke with a voice that carried the weight of shared memories.

"Loey," Kai began, his words measured, "there are truths that demand reckoning, and i guess the time has come."

As the night unfolded, the conversation between the two men traversed the labyrinth of their shared history. The revelations, like shards of glass, reflected the complexities of a past intertwined with secrets, loyalties, and the presence of Y/N. Chanyeol, haunted by the ghosts of choices made and paths diverged, confronted the reality that awaited him at the crossroads of destiny.

In the tranquil expanse of Chanyeol's apartment, the air buzzed with a silent storm of unresolved history. The soft glow of muted lights cast a flickering dance on the walls, creating an ambiance that mirrored the tension between two figures locked in a confrontation.

Chanyeol, standing at a distance, started with a genuine concern that seeped into his voice, "Jongin, where the hell have you been all these years? You disappeared without a trace, not a word. We were friends, and I... I needed someone back then."

Kai, leaning against a table, his gaze steady, replied with a cryptic smile, "People change, bro. Sometimes they need to disappear to find themselves." His words, a veiled commentary on the passage of time, lingered in the air.

The genuine worry that initially etched Chanyeol's features slowly morphed into a mask of frustration. "You think you can just waltz back into my life and pretend like nothing happened? Like you didn't leave me  when I needed you the most?" His words, tinged with betrayal, hung heavy in the room.

Kai, cool as ever, countered with a quirked eyebrow, "Well, I'm here now, aren't I? Things change, people change. Get over it, man." His dismissive tone cut through the lingering emotions, leaving a bitter aftertaste.

“I had literally received word from my mother that my dad died due to a heart attack. I was so lost. I was grieving. Didn’t you think I would need you to be there for me?” Chanyeol said, his voice betraying him by cracking a bit. Kai doesn’t utter a word at this. He knew this, but he chose to stay silent.

The exchange took a sharper turn as Chanyeol, unable to suppress the growing anger, took a step forward. "How do you know Y/N?" The question, edged with a hint of aggression, demanded answers. He felt Kai didn’t give a shit about the past, so he at least wanted to get answers regarding the present. 

Kai, unfazed, leaned back with a nonchalant demeanor. "We've known each other since we were young," he answered vaguely, a deliberate choice to keep the details shrouded in mystery.

Chanyeol, frustration bubbling to the surface, fired back with a pointed remark, "People might have believed in your vanishing act, but I sure as hell didn't. You left without a word, without any explanation. Some friend you turned out to be."

Kai, a sly grin playing on his lips, chose to deflect rather than engage. "My turn," he declared, shifting the focus. "How does it feel to still be living in your father's shadows?" The question, a calculated jab at Chanyeol's past, lingered in the charged air.

Chanyeol, his temper rising, retorted with a sharp tone, "I left that life behind. I've got nothing to do with my father or his empire." The words, a declaration of independence, resonated with the weight of Chanyeol's choices.

Kai, undeterred, continued to peel back the layers. "Then why has taking it down been your life's mission for the past eight years?" His inquiry, a challenge to the sincerity of Chanyeol's motives, was met with a brooding silence.

In the midst of the verbal sparring, Chanyeol's patience wore thin, and he snapped back with a pointed question, "Have you and Y/N ever been together romantically?" The words, laced with accusation, sought to unravel any hidden connections. Why do I need to answer his questions about my past when he obviously doesn’t give a flying fuck?!?

Kai, seizing the opportunity to maintain the upper hand, chuckled and replied vaguely, "We've always been platonic friends, except for that one time we almost kissed each other way back when." His playful evasion added another layer of mystery to the already complex dynamic.

As the verbal jousting continued, Chanyeol, now fueled by frustration and confusion, pressed on with a revelation. "We confessed our love to each other not too long ago. We're together, Jongin." The admission, intended to assert his present happiness, instead intensified the brewing storm.

Kai, eyes betraying a hint of emotion, couldn't resist taking a dig. "Some gall you have to be in a relationship with her. You are obviously toying her around. I wouldn’t believe it for a second that you ..hah…actually ‘love’ her," he remarked, the words dripping with resentment.

Chanyeol, no stranger to the art of verbal combat, shot back with defiant pride, "What the hell do you mean by that shit?"

The atmosphere grew dense with unspoken grievances as Kai, choosing to remain enigmatic, delivered a cryptic warning. "If you have the slightest bit of shame and guilt for what your father has done to this city, or even the people who were under his employ for that matter, you'd stay away from Y/N."

Chanyeol, anger boiling over, demanded an explanation. "What the fuck are you on about?"

Kai, unwilling to reveal more, decided it was time to end the conversation. As he made his way toward the exit, Chanyeol's frustration reached its peak, and he shouted after him, "Who do YOU think you are, telling me what I must do or who I must love? Get the hell out of my home Jongin or Kai or whatever the fuck you call yourself now You are a fucking traitor, and have proven without a shadow of a doubt that we were never friends and now never will be!"

Kai stopped, turned around, and with a parting shot, said, "You sure about that, Loey?" The words lingered in the air as Kai exited, leaving Chanyeol seething with unanswered questions and a lingering sense of unrest.

[things-about-cars-in-posts]

So, there's many of you now. I know we're in the How Sweet It Is Not To Know Follower Counts website and I do cherish that, but still, more people than ever in my life clicked a button that in some capacity says "I care what this dork has to tell me" and I want to acknowledge and celebrate that - especially now that this growth seems to have settled into its rhythm.

Spot when @identifying-cars-in-posts reblogged my pinned, lol.

So, for my 100th post, I felt like celebrating our love for reaching round numbers. And little in the automotive world represents it more iconically than what reigned supreme above all cars in the 1980s.

Porsche started out as an engineering firm, whose most notable contract was what would become known as the Volkswagen Beetle (and boy what a story that is). The first car of its own was the 356 seen below - a sporty body laid over Beetle underpinnings and thus still mostly made by Volkswagen. But by God, they were going to run with that recipe and perfect it 'til the sun burst.

Meanwhile, in England, a chap called Colin Chapman decides the next of his company's track cars will actually be drivable on the street, to need no trailer to go race. Thus the Lotus Seven is born and sold in kit, which avoids high taxes on the exporting of cars to the US (but those taxes would have remained had they been sold with assembly manuals… so they were sold with disassembly manuals for you to read backwards. No, seriously.).

The Porsche 356 kept getting less and less Volkswagen and more and more Porsche until in 1964, the year of the Beatles, the year of the Stones, the stone-age Beetle was left behind for good with the Porsche 911 (seen below), a blank-canvas take on the same recipe of an air-cooled rear boxer engine powering the rear wheels of a squished-Beetle-shaped sportscar. 'Twas good.

In 1973, Lotus was doing pretty well for itself. The Seven's whole 2500 sales had carried it through producing a number of other models, and a few were even in production concurrently - a lineup! Exciting stuff! Well, that and an F1 team so successful its Wikipedia page features the section "Domination in the 60s and '70s". The exciting opportunity to move upmarket, with bigger models with AC and automatics and all that bougie shit, pushed them to move away from the image of scruffy old kit car makers, ceding the Seven's production to the last two dealers that sold it, main one being Caterham Cars.

The 911 headed into the 80s old enough to drive, and Porsche's plans considered it at the end of the line, with staff already mourning it. But then the yankee at his third week as CEO saw those plans (which to Germans are basically scripture), said "to hell with that" and extended that line off the chart. Literally. He went to the lead engineer's office and physically took a marker at a development chart. They all secretly liked that.

Still, it was clear the game was changing - intercoolers, all wheel drive, active suspension... how hard could the 911 layout go if it didn't stick to its simple air-cooled roots? Well, Porsche resolved to find out by filling it with the cusp of automotive advancements and then some. And I do mean filling - a chassis that didn't even need space for a radiator was suddenly tasked with storing it, two turbos, two intercoolers, and a good half dozen oil pumps.

Yeah good luck with that, buddy. Oh, and materials? The body was kevlar, the frame was aluminium, the floor was Nomex (ever even heard of Nomex???), the wheels were magnesium and the spokes were hollow!!!! You could blow into the spokes!!! And don't get me started on the technology! Variable height, an all-wheel-drive system that distributed torque at will, electronics galore... As you may be able to guess, development was… complex.

At one point a test driver was doing 180km/h (112mph) to go get the car un-on-fire-d, and that's just one of the plenty horror stories. Hell, work started in 1983 to create a car for Group B and took so long that when said rally series died in 1986, production was just starting. Not that development would stop at the start of production, either - the first cars just got updated when the owners took them in for their service. (Can't blame them, I fix wording in weeks-old posts...) But however long it took, the resulting Porsche 959 answered the originating question "How hard can this chassis go?" with a resounding "Hard and then some".

It was comfortable and refined enough to be driven every day, but so capable it extended the limits of the concept of production car. Put it this way: it reached car people's favorite round number, 100km/h (to yankee doodles, 60mph) in 3.6 seconds. The second fastest production car did so in 4.6. That's one second of margin in a race that ends in five. Oh, and if you want to put it another way: the 959 was the first production car to ever surpass 300km/h, let alone come 1 shy of the mythical 200mph (322km/h).

Meanwhile, the handful of chaps at Caterham was still producing the Caterham Seven. It's the Lotus Seven (specifically the third revision, from 1968), but I guess in '83 the engine changed. We were saying?

They couldn't sell the 959 stateside for lack of crash test data, and America's ban on importing foreign cars under 25 years of age had no exception. That is, until Bill Gates wanted a 959 so bad he spent 13 years getting an exception passed. That's how hot this car is.

And yet, this record-breaking, boundary-pushing, master-of-all-trades hypercar sits atop the 80s automotive landscape engulfed in shadow. But how? Why? Because it failed to contend with the greatest automotive headache: humans. It was planted, practical, reliable, predictable - docile, domesticated, amicable. Perfect. But these are not meant to be cars, they're meant to be posters. And you don't get posters of what is perfect, but of what excites you. And what excites us is the visceral, the raw, the uncompromising - the wild, the feral, the dangerous. And, of course, reaching round numbers. What excites us is a lot more like the first production car to break 200mph, the Ferrari F40.

Remember how the 959 was being developed for Group B racing and then the series died? Well, Ferrari got screwed over too, with the 288 GTO Evoluzione they were developing (seen here to the right of the base 288 GTO) suddenly having no reason to be.

The lead engineer then asked Enzo Ferrari to let him turn that weekend project (literally, they couldn't spend work week time on it) into a road car to celebrate their 40 years. Enzo, nearing the end of his days, thought "Ah, what the hell, let's leave with a bang", so they set off to build what would become the anti-959. Not anti as in response, but as in antithesis. Where the 959 was an attempt to modernize the noisy, unrefined, old-school 911 -to make a supercar "tested for everyday usability to the most strenuous standards", by Porsche's words- the F40 was a reaction to, per Ferrari's words, "customers saying Ferraris were becoming too plush and comfortable": "nothing but sheer performance. Not a laboratory for the future, as the 959 is. Not Star Wars."

To exemplify: left is the 959 - note the leather and electric seats, right is the F40, note the string you open the door with.

The F40 was noisy, crashy, torrid, and the turbo lag painstakingly smoothed out in the 959 here kicked you in the back like a locked door. It would rip your head off the moment it sensed you didn't know what you were doing. But it was more exciting - to look at, to hear, to drive. And that's what won people over - including the buyers, which were near four times as many as Porsche's despite the price tag being double.

Had the 959 lost then? Well, not quite. Enter the 959 S. Doing away with much of the 959's luxuries, like adjustable suspension, electric windows, AC, central locking, and even backsea- wait, the 959 had BACKSEATS???? Holy FUCK why does no one talk about that??? Take the family on a trip to 300kphville! I was saying. They schlapped some bigger turbos on too and power went from 444hp right past the F40's 470hp to a healthy 508, that propelled it over what any roadgoing F40 ever managed at 211mph, or 339km/h. Presumably for bragging rights.

And I want to stress, these were titans clashing here. This was leagues beyond what other production cars could even comprehend. Again, the 959 hit 100km/h in 3.6 seconds. The F40 held a record by taking less than 16 seconds to go from 0 to 160km/h(100mph) and back to 0. This was witnessing superhumans fighting through the clouds.

And then in 1992, the two chaps that 'developed' Caterhams (i.e. banged new ones together in the shed) told the chap they worked for "Hey, let's make one that's really barebones and fast", rang up their ol' mate (and ex-F1 racer) Jonathan Palmer to ask to lend a hand, and bought some of the 250hp engine that powered the Vauxhall (British for Opel) Cavalier GSi in the British Touring Car Championship.

Thus, the Caterham Seven Jonathan Palmer Evolution - a raw, uncomfortable, uncompromising beast that went fast as all fuck. Now, if you don't know Sevens you may think "Ah, so just like the F40, what with its handcrank windows and the string to open the doorlatch and all". And to illustrate how far off that is: in the Seven the windows were sown on and you latched the door yourself with a button.

And that's the standard version which had windows and doors. The JPE didn't.

The JPE had a carbon tub you were meant to call a seat, the controls, a rev counter and a tach that didn't even bother with speed under 30mph, and fuck you. And this one is not even as barebones as it gets: this one is painted.

So while the F40 went from 1,250kg (2760lb) to 1370kg (3020lb) when adjusted to comply with US regulations and the 959 went from 1450kg (3200lb) to the lightweight S version's 1350kg (2975lb), the Seven JPE weighed 1170. As in 1170lb. 530kg. Read that again if you need to, but it had about half the power of those two and considerably less than half the car to move. And so, in January 1993, this thing -this '50s coffin with a Vauxhall engine banged together by one guy in a shed- took the Guinness World Record for fastest car to 100km/h with a time of 3.46 seconds - and the 0-160km/h-0 record with 13.1 seconds. Close your eyes and picture that.

Yet the Seven JPE is hardly known to anyone but the most hardcore of enthusiasts, and owned by barely four dozens of 'em. So did it, perhaps, ultimately lose? Not at all. In fact, none of these cars did.

Every 959 cost Porsche twice what they sold it for, but the project proved the 911's layout could stand the test of time, and its development gave Porsche technologies it gradually infused into the 911 keeping it relevant, competitive, and most importantly alive to this day.

And I think we can safely say that when Enzo Ferrari died in 1988, a year after the F40's launch, his wish to leave with a bang was perfectly fulfilled - so much so that the F40 is commonly regarded as the peak of his legacy.

And the JPE was simply the greatest Seven ever - the most raw, thrilling, pure automotive experience the streets had ever witnessed. If driving a fast car was like biking down a hill, the Seven JPE was skydiving. Hell, it was the cover car of éX-Driver, an anime about a team using old-school sportscars to rescue haywire autonomous vehicles!

Not that culturally relevant but MAN was it cool as a kid. I need to hang those damn posters one of these days. I was saying.

These are three success stories in three radically different ways. Because, as much as I've made this post all about the numbers, sometimes it's not about that. Sometimes it's about making a show, leaving a mark, being spectacular. Sometimes it's about pushing yourself to achievements you can take pride and inspiration from. Sometimes it's simply about having fun seeing just how far you can really go. Sometimes it's about deciding what you want to be and make a new favorite version of yourself, that is the best it can be at what you care the most about. And for some that may result in less popularity or success or impact or legacy than others, but those are just some of the things you can work towards. It can be okay to just work towards having a blast. Hell, those madmen at Caterham used to stay after work to build themselves track cars, race them the next day and put ‘em back in the workshop after racing them, and the company survived to this day. Because, yes, they're still around - and their new lineup topper gets to 100 in 2.8. Windshield still optional. Well, at least there's headrests now. And a wider version, for the concrete possibility that you physically don't fit.

Never change, Caterham, because you certainly never have.

Links in blue are posts of mine explaining the words in question - if you liked this post, you might like those!

[twstmagica]

Magical Girl Yuu's First Day pt 3

Finally Yuu reaches the giant sorting mirror.

She doesn't even care about the creepy face. No one else is worrying so she won't either.

One step closer to getting some answers and going home.

Yup. nothing left but to walk forward and –

**BOOM**

A window shatters. Glass and blue fire rains down on unsuspecting victims. There is running, shouting, and crying. Gavin screams

“The Great Grim is here!!!”

Crowley is freaking out. 

“Who let a monster in here?! Which one of you miscreants is responsible for this!!”

What the hell? Shouldn't you be more concerned with saving your students?

Yuu looked towards the more authoritative robe people and saw they were… just standing there. Talking amongst each other. 

Some were even smiling. Jeeze.

“I got some glass in my eyes!”

“Someone help please!”

“My hair! MY HAIR!!!”

Blur fire continues to spread and bedlam reigns supreme.

Turns out Yuu should have been paying more attention to the catcoon, because while she was taking in the mayhem around her Grim made his move.

**THUMP**

Yuu is shoved to the ground and the little rat takes her place in front of the mirror.

The headmaster is still squawking helplessly. 

The student leadership is bickering amongst themselves.

“There's still glass in my eyes!!”

Yuu gives in to her irritation and summons her scepter.

Grim is still monologuing about his superiority as Yuu gets ready to swing

“Ardent…”

Grim turns as she starts to move. He's too late.

“STRIKE”

The annoying rat is sent rocketing with a satisfying THWAP.

Another window is shattered, along with its frame and some of the surrounding wall

As the projectile disappears into the distance all that's left is a fading trail of pink glowing butterflies

Yuu: 1     Catcoon: 0

A few seconds of silence and then – 

“DON’T JUST BREAK MORE WINDOWS!”

Now the headmaster is berating Yuu, again. There's just no winning with this guy.

Students are back to screaming and someone from the leader's group is laughing.

Everything is still on fire as Mr Horn Guy speaks up, loud enough to fill the room.

“I suppose there's no helping it. I shall restore the mirror chamber.”

The world rumbles, green lights dance through the room and a verdant mist engulfs Yuu’s vision.

When the mist clears everything is fixed. Everything.

Fire? Out. 

Windows? Repared.

 Walls? Pristine. 

That guy’s eyes? Un-glassed.

Even Yuu’s robes felt tidier.

“Huh, nifty.”

The others seemed less taken with Horn Guy's magic.

Actually they're being pretty rude. Throwing around terms like "monstrous strength" and "intimidating aura"

“Ahem. Thank you Mr Draconia. And now to conclude the ceremony…”

Yuu walks up before anything else can interrupt.

“State thy name.” “Yuu.”

“The shape of thy soul is… unclear.”

Wut

“I cannot decipher the wavelengths of this one, neither color nor shape are suited to any dorm” 

Man, Birdface McSquawky is not okay with this. He’s shouting about how this is “impossible” and “unprecedented”

“Ugh, I can't take any more random events. Ignihyde, time to GTFO.”

Looks like Fire Guy reached his breaking point

Aaaaaand looks like the others are following his cue.

Pretty soon it's just Yuu and Birdman

“I can't believe they just left me to deal with this alone. How cruel.”

“Really? Because after how they handled the catcoon attack this seems pretty in character.”

[batfoonery]

I’m sad tonight so have a stupid little headcannon of mine about how I think Damian grows up

Firstly, he cannot grow up this is Illegal that’s my spunky little guy!

But if he must (and I suppose he must)

Personally I don’t agree with DC’s tendency to make him Big n Bulky like Bruce.

Assuming Talia really did handpick certain traits, she probably would have leaned towards traits better for being an assassin. Like a more slender frame. Probably not as slender as Tim. If we chart it with Bruce n Jay being the Bulkiest and Tim being the most slim (but still very strong!) and Dick as the midpoint (aerodynamic but wider chest + shoulders) then I’d put him between Jay and Dick, but certainly a bit closer to the latter than the former.

I also am of the opinion that he’s the second most springy (flexible) after Dick.

So, I know with ballerinas the reason they have to start young is bc they have to start forming the flexible pathways (I’m not wording that right but the actual term eludes me rn) bc when you reach adolescence your joints start hardening into their final full adult spots and pathways. I’m assuming that the same applies to gymnasts.

Damian would’ve been a prime age for this development of sproingy joints. Tim and Jay were already teens, so although they have the ability to be damned good acrobats, they can’t develop the same range of motion that D & d have.

And yes, this would require developing the motions. But Damian likely already had learned techniques that required a particular level of flexibility in the LoA, and then when Dick was Batman (and in charge of training) I think he would have leaned towards more acrobatic skills. Both bc it’s useful and bc he needed a way to wear the kid out so he’d stop trying to escape and maybe take a nap for once. Getting bouncy kids (well. Not bouncy, but certainly Energized) to settle down by wearing them out by tricking them into doing cross wheels across the lawn is a classic older-sibling-stuck-babysitting tactic.

Overall this means his muscle tone would probably build in a way similar to Dick as well. Not totally the same! Part of our ability to build muscle is genetic—some of us are better at putting it in certain places than others

So where Dick’s generalized shape is like an upside-down triangle (or, if the artist is choosing to be particularly annoying about the poor guy’s rear then an unfortunate wasp figure—please that poor man’s back…. Shapely but reasonable is that really too much to ask for?) I think Damian’s thighs will be Thick like Bruce’s, making him somewhat of an hourglass (ass not as defined as Dick’s though) although the narrowest part of his waist will still only be slightly curved in (so not as severe as the description ‘hourglass’ typically invokes).

Height? No clue. Smaller than Bruce but not by much I’m guessing. Tall but not too tall and somewhat slender would probably help with assassin-ing in Talia’s eyes.

Although personally I think it would be really funny if he was second smallest (Tim reigning shorty supreme of course).

Features? No clue! Honestly kids can inherit so many potential features, who knows! I like when artists give him darker skin and Talia’s nose. But I’m biased bc I wish my skin was darker (I’m half Mexican half white and wow the pale is Blinding so unfortunately I am aware just how pale mixed children can be) and Talia is like. The hottest person in DC for me. I also like the green eyes bc it makes sense for him to have been exposed to the Lazarus pit, although I’m open to them having been a different color at birth for Angst purposes.

I just think there’s so many recessive traits that could pop up as he gets older. Or maybe he starts out being Bruce’s mini-me and then magically shifts into Talia’s boy. But I like the thought of him having something unexpected like one singular dimple on his left cheek—inherited from Martha and the Kane lineage but skipped Bruce (however Kate has the same dimple). Or maybe the droop of his eyelids recalls memories of Talia’s mother (not that Ra’s ever shared this info other than maybe once in passing when he first saw the baby).

That’s it that’s all! Agree, don’t agree, I don’t really mind either way. I just think it’s fun to think about sometimes.

[phantalgia]

9/24/24 - Sick again; other things

There's some stuff that have been happening I cant talk about right now.

COVID is a nightmare and the realizations of just being able to step back and understand how messed up the reality is, is something else. The surreal normality of COVID and its depoliticization are just more evidence of a dystopian reality we live in, not some far off future.

Many pandemic fictions have existed and showed how they get resolved or don’t. But this is something much more terrifying than any fiction...THE DOWNRIGHT DENIAL OF ITS EXISTANCE. It's expertly crafted propaganda that didn't even need hard work. Just the interests of big business in mind. How the language is framed in such a way in WHO reportings to fit the approval of big business. Mascots like Fauci serve big business not public health.

What's the expected end goal here? Is this just a eugenics program now? People become disabled or die due to repeat infections and long term complications that arent counted in covid deaths. The population has been propagandized well. Now imagine if we were even more aware of propaganda that is also more subtle we're not immune to. That would probably be challenging. But it doesn't help to be paranoid either. That doesn't lead to good places.

People need to be aware of the Inverted Totalitarianism (Sheldon Wolin) we live under. That this is a dictatorship, just turned on its head. It should be obvious that there isnt a desire for extreme measures of political repression but this happens through indirect or subtle means and exploitations within structures. A system in which political apathy reigns supreme. The politically apathetic then become an inversion of any brownshirt or blackshirt. Without any knowledge of being so. This is my extreme argument but I don’t take this lightly. The political actions among the left in America when it came to a COVID response that included class conciousness/social conciousness have also been just as disgraceful. Where was it?!

The post-modern world surely is something else. I cant take being this sick every day or on and off. It's tearing my mental health apart that's already been fragile. I cant think anymore. My short term memory has been compromised. My vulnerabilities have been compromised. My eyes are freaking me out and I’m afraid of losing my eyesight.

I’m waking up from vivid dreams or nightmares. I cant sleep for more than a few hours and if I do I’m still shaking with a fever. I know part of this is post surgery. But it feels bigger, obviously COVID plays a role and my own mental health and mental health journey and understanding of how my brain works and unlearning process is taking its toll.

What are we to do as a people? I’m currently learning about community in vrchat through a group that I think I needed. I have spent so much time trying to find where I fit in communities that maybe I needed a community orientated towards what community actually means and where my own self can fit amongst an ever atomizing world. Perhaps such skills will translate well not just to online communities and friendships but to the real world as well. For now, the journey is in vr/internet. I’m not saying I have hopes the internet will be the saving grace for the species. Have you seen the internet lately?

It's like that second episode of Black Mirror I believe where Daniel Kaluuya's character and others live in just this dystopia that combines City 17 with brutalist architecture, but obviously inspired by 1984. The internet is just bombarding us with advertisments further and further. The videos I get recommended on random internet drama. Spectacle after spectacle. The episode ends on the paradox that comes from being a dissenter. That even dissenters aren't immune to being commodified. But...hopefully it is more optimistic than pessemistic in the real world.

I really cant find anything specific on Google anymore. It used to be that you either could or couldnt. Now it just shows you top results of semi related but unrelated topics. Not that you can access those articles anyway because you need to pay up!

Perhaps niche spaces and networks online will be the saving grace of this all. Maybe cyberspace isnt all doomed to fail alternatives, real intentional alternatives. But not immune to COINTELPRO style infiltration and dissent. Which is where I want to turn back my attention to this realization that I needed to learn about community and where I might fit.

Of course I wasnt going to find where I fit in community because I didn't know what that meant! What family meant! It's something so foreign to me. So this space, although geared towards content creators, community leaders, and moderators (that I had experience with) still offers insights to the average user online. To be able to bring back the humanity in online life. Perhaps a reconciliation between its chaotic culture and a humane one? I don’t think it's too impossible.

Ive expanded further to find groups dedicated towards learning about my own mental health and issues with socializing. One group stands out so far. So hopefully this will be helpful for me. I need a place where it's ok to be vulnerable and not questionable on if it's ok or not.

[zombieheroine]

Ensnared [Sukuna/Yuuji]

Word count: 3200 Rating: Explicit Warnings: Dub-Con, ambiguous age, nonsexual gore Summary: Yuuji is sacrificed to Sukuna. [Read on Ao3] Kinktober Day 13: Size Difference A/N: This is how I think the canon should end. Fight on, Yuuji!

~

It had been a few years since Yuuji had last worn a yukata, and he kept tugging at its skirt as he walked the steps, anxious to keep himself covered. Dark red tori gates framed the stone stairs curving slightly on the side of the hill, like the bloody skeleton of a dragon that had fallen from the sky to die. The air was heavy, almost buzzing with cursed energy, and the night felt darker than ever with cursed spirits lurking in the deep shadows like creatures from the depths. Yuuji realized that the night didn’t just feel darker, but that it really was. There was barely anything left of the metropolis of Tokyo, and for the first time in probably centuries the night reigned supreme in its full natural power.

He reached the final gate that marked the entry to the shrine. Despite his resolve, Yuuji couldn’t quite force himself to pass through it right away, but stopped and tried to swallow down his nerves. His yukata felt sheer and indecent, and despite the cool night he was sweating. The shrine had risen from the ground in one night, a twisted, defiled version of a sacred residence. Red lanterns lit the black stone gardens, the light of their flames dancing on the stones and the deep red stairs up to the altar. Where there should have been koi ponds, there were quiet black pools and streams of blood. Where there should have been flowers, there were horrifying fleshy remains of fallen sorcerers, twisted inside out and around themselves, like they had been flayed open and folded into gory mimicries of lotuses. “So, they have finally decided to give you over,” called a lazy, gleeful rumble of a voice from the central altar of the shrine. Despite himself, Yuuji jumped and was immediately irritated with himself. With the final, angry tug he wrapped his yukata tighter and then balled his hands into fists, summoning his defiance. “Well, yeah, but it’s not like anyone likes this!” he yelled and then took the final step over the threshold. He felt the change in the air immediately, like being folded inside someone’s domain. He wondered if he was, if Sukuna was really that powerful, but wondering about that wasn’t helpful, so Yuuji cast the thought out. He walked across the black stones, spitefully kicking them and breaking their careful arrangements. “You’re still rude as ever, brat,” Sukuna drawled from his place, his voice carrying across the garden. “You should keep to the side of the stairs when you present yourself to me.”

Yuuji kicked the stones and kept his eyes forward, avoiding the terrible human lotuses. Some of them might have still been weakly writhing, but Yuuji couldn’t help them, only let the needless suffering enrage him further. “Why?” he called up the steps of the altar, rolling his eyes. “You’re not a god.”

A cold rush of rage blew through the entire domain like a pulse. “We’ll see about that,” Sukuna replied, his voice dropping even lower, dark with intention.

Yuuji looked up and realized the centre of the shrine wasn’t an altar, but a throne. Wide stairs led to a square platform under a roof that stood on six pillars. The curving eaves and the pillars were so red they were nearly black, wrapped with thick ropes woven of black human hair and carrying strings of talismans of paper and bone. In the middle was a wicked throne made crudely out of bones, but lavishly lined with silk pillows with gold tassels.

Sukuna in the height of his power was a terrifying sight, even Yuuji had to admit that. His incarnation fully realized, his cursed energy was radiating from him like toxic heat from a volcano, and his stature had violently blossomed into the form that was past any human limit.

He was well over two meters tall with four muscular arms, and the folds of his kimono hung loose over his broad chest. The tattoos ran all over his body like black snakes, all the way to his face where everything boyish had vanished and been replaced with the features of a mature man, with four red eyes and a strange aura like a veil of immortality. Something you couldn’t see but what drained all fight out of you, the absolute certainty that you couldn’t win against this monster.

Remembering it had once annoyed him, Yuuji spitefully stared directly up to Sukuna from the foot of the stairs.

Sukuna stared back, expressionless and unblinking, but then chuckled and crossed one pair of hands over his belly. “As sturdy as ever, brat. All before you have bowed their heads to the ground at this point.” He relaxed on his throne, one leg curling under him as he sat back and regarded Yuuji with a smile. “Are you just going to stare or are you going to come up here?” he challenged after a moment. Yuuji felt the impulse to tug at his yukata again but resisted. He didn’t go up the stairs either. He scoffed. “Why should I? You asked me here, and I came. That’s it.” The smile on Sukuna’s face thinned dangerously. His gaze on Yuuji felt vulgar, intrusive like unwanted physical touch, and there was no hiding from it. Sukuna simply tilted his head. “Don’t make me come down to get you, brat,” he said silkily.

That wasn’t a fight Yuuji wanted to pick with him, not yet at least. For a moment longer he petulantly stared back, then with a huff of fury took the first step up the stairs. Sukuna’s smile drew wider still, his hungry eyes drinking in Yuuji as he started to climb.

The climb felt both exhaustingly long and too short. Far too soon Yuuji was getting close to Sukuna, seeing every terrifying detail of the King of Curses, how the unholy arts he had created and tamed had drawn their mark on him. Somehow Yuuji had never feared Sukuna inside his mind, thinking him more as a bad tempered, estranged twin than an ancient curse, but as he came closer it became harder and harder to hold back the animal instinct in the back of his head telling him to run.

Finally, Yuuji rose on the last step, one below Sukuna’s throne, and there he stilled, heart pounding like a hare’s and trembling.

“There you are, little sorcerer,” Sukuna said, deep satisfaction rumbling in his chest. He didn’t seem to be in any rush, eating Yuuji up with his eyes only. “You look so much better like this. This is how you’re supposed to be, none of that tasteless, modern trash the Jujutsu sorcerers dress their little acolytes in.”

“It’s… It’s just a school uniform, that’s normal—” Yuuji started to argue, grasping at the familiar straw. Sukuna clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, all four of them. He sat up straighter suddenly, making Yuuji flinch, and grinned. “Your precious Jujutsu allies have made you a sacrifice to me, and still you defend them? Is that loyalty? Or stupidity?”

Yuuji tried to steel his nerves even as Sukuna leaned forward, the oppressive aura of his cursed energy rolling off him like the hot breath of a predator.

“They didn’t make me, I came on my own,” Yuuji said.

It was the wrong thing to say – Or maybe the right, the wrong kind of right, because an entirely new expression fell on Sukuna’s monstrous features. He looked feverish and sharp at once, the gleam in his eyes unambiguously hungry. It took a moment of cautious peering for Yuuji to realize that Sukuna was glad – glad and excited.

“You know your place,”Sukuna purred, deeply delighted. Yuuji had no chance to say anything more, because Sukuna reached out with the arms Yuuji had forgotten to keep track of and grasped him, one huge hand closing around his bicep and the other taking him by the waist.

Easily, as if he weighed nothing, Yuuji found himself lifted off his feet, his sandals slipping off and leaving him barefoot, and then he was pulled right into Sukuna’s arms as the King sank back to his throne of death and hedonism.

Despite his attempts to keep his dignity, Yuuji couldn’t help but yelp as he was caught and trapped, ending up sprawled right into the arms of the unholy monster. Sukuna’s hands were on him in an instant. Big, strong fingers dug into his thighs and back, the yukata feeling like nothing as Yuuji was pressed against the hot skin of the tattooed chest, greedy hands gripping the juncture of his thigh and running up his back. Yuuji couldn’t repress a shudder as Sukuna pressed his face into his hair, drawing in a deep, savouring breath. “I’m pleased,” Sukuna rumbled into Yuuji’s ear, “At last, you have remembered where you belong. From the moment you were born, you belonged to me. You were made for me.” “Uh... Right,” Yuuji managed to reply. Sukuna’s heat was quickly bleeding into him, and the sudden intimacy was more than a little frightening, leaving Yuuji damp with cold sweat and flashing hot with adrenaline. That, and with what he knew would soon happen. He could feel the hammering of his pulse in the tip of every limb, blood rushing inside him. Sukuna pawed at him, one hand slipping under the hem of the yukata and running a hot palm up his leg, the back of his knee and all the way up his thigh, leaving the skirt bundled up at his hip. The three other hands roamed and gripped, one trailing up his spine, one slipping under him to part the folds of the yukata to run his knuckles up his chest, and one gripping him over his waist, the palm and fingers spanning around his buttock.

Sukuna pressed his face against the side of Yuuji’s head and licked at his neck, the wet heat making Yuuji squirm uselessly against his hold. “It’s been a while since I was inside you, little sorcerer,” Sukuna whispered into his ear. “Wouldn’t you like that again too? Haven’t you felt my absence? You have been the nest of a god, you must feel so empty without me.”

Yuuji managed to just mumble some broken words. He tried to remember what he had come here for, the purpose of this ritual, but it was so difficult. He was lying across Sukuna’s chest, his usually so sturdy and reliable limbs feeling scattered and tender like a spring colt’s, and the reality of it all mercilessly dawning to him.

Sukuna’s claw cut the obi of his yukata in half like it was nothing but paper, and having his single layer of decency fall apart made Yuuji truly feel like a sacrifice. Like a small piece of candy Sukuna was unwrapping, twisting open and about to suck down into nothing.

“Why is my little sorcerer still so defiant? You came here on your own, didn’t you? You know what I want,” Sukuna mused into Yuuji’s bare shoulder, the edges of his fangs grazing the skin that suddenly felt so tender.

“Doesn’t mean that I… Doesn’t mean I wanted to—” Yuuji fumbled at a response, something that would have sounded convincing at any other time.

Sukuna laughed quietly, low and dark, right into his ear. His teeth closed on Yuuji’s shoulder, catching him into his fangs and giving him a bite that was just hard enough to make him freeze and yelp in genuine terror. When he got the reaction, Sukuna let go and laughed again. “I can smell sorcery on you, little one. I can taste it in your skin and sweat. It’s strong, but not like mine. I can feel in my core how eager you are for me! There’s no one here you need to lie to, you might as well surrender.”  

“Yeah, right,” Yuuji muttered, slowly finding his own limbs. His legs were straddling Sukuna’s belly and his arms thrown over his shoulders, but slowly Yuuji could bring them to obey him again. He tried to squeeze with his knees and pull his elbows under his body, hands taking a hold of Sukuna’s loose kimono collar, its black silk cool to his touch. Sukuna watched him as he struggled to find a steadier position than the humiliating sprawl, like in some sadistic way it endeared him to watch Yuuji fumble. Right as Yuuji started to feel the slightest bit steadier, Sukuna grinned again. “Well done, little sorcerer.” Then he gripped Yuuji’s yukata’s skirt and flipped it up, leaving him naked from waist down. A full-body shudder shook Yuuji and he yelped, jerking forward as if he could escape Sukuna into the arms of the man himself, causing Sukuna to laugh in gleeful mockery. His large hands closed on Yuuji again and trapped him like a bird, arms against his sides and legs spread, and the red gleam of his eyes turned both manic and predatory. “Now, now, you were so determined just a moment ago,” Sukuna cooed, the high lilt of his voice uncomfortably familiar to Yuuji. One hand gripping his thigh was sliding even further up, the thumb shamelessly spreading Yuuji, who squealed at the touch and blushed at his own voice. Sukuna laughed. “Just admit it, you… “ he trailed off and fell silent, even the manic grin on his face fading into an almost human expression of confusion. His fingers were pressing right to the hole, but instead of finding the boy tight and dry, he met soft, giving flesh, slippery under his fingers with grease thick like butter. Yuuji felt the atmosphere shift. Sukuna went still under him, only the single finger pressing, the thick pad of it trying him in a bizarrely careful manner. It was rubbing, circling and smearing the slick, almost coaxing, persuading him to just open up a little more, just let him – The finger slipped inside. It sank like into a pot of honey, and being filled with it shocked Yuuji to let out a long, keening moan. He shivered with it, the sensation pulsing through him and turning his limbs loose again. He couldn’t keep the noise inside him, nor could he refuse the finger that was simultaneously unravelling and turning him from cold and shaky into hot and needy. Sukuna was quiet, only his chest rising and falling with his quickening breaths. For a moment the King of Curses forgot himself to his task, into fingering the precious gift of a boy in his arms, doing nothing except seeking to make more of those delicious keens fall from his lips and see what it took to have those hips come meet his hand. A moment later, Sukuna caught himself, knuckles deep in his sacrificial human, and Yuuji raised his head to look him straight into his eyes.

Arousal was good, Yuuji remembered as he panted for breath. Arousal made him strong, he realized. It was familiar, it was good, it was a fire he set within himself, the flames rushing into his being and turning him sweaty and flushed like in the middle of a good fight. “I told you,” Yuuji said to Sukuna, defiant again, “I came here voluntarily. I knew what you—” Sukuna’s blank awe turned back into raw hunger, a new grin splitting his face as a wave of desire surged from within him. “Oh… How exquisite you are, young Itadori Yuuji.”

The finger resumed its course, another forcing its way inside by its side. Yuuji groaned with the stretch but forced himself to bear it, the edge of pain melting away soon enough. Sukuna cradled him closer, gripping him by the nape and making him ride his fingers on his own, his gaze burning on Yuuji when he did just that. “Aren’t you a gift fit for a god,” Sukuna muttered, almost as if speaking to himself. He peeled the rest of Yuuji’s yukata off him, his hands stroking over the exposed flesh slowly, almost reverently, only the edge of his claws digging into the flesh, just a teasing pinch, never cutting.

Yuuji needed more leverage. The fire inside was eating up everything, himself mostly. Its heat pressed into his loins, he felt his boiling blood hard and heavy, begging for release, and all he did was ride. Searching more, he gripped Sukuna’s biceps, his hands only big enough to squeeze the swell of their curve, but he was strong and pulled his body into motion. Sukuna’s hands stroked him, caressing him like a pet he was probably threatening to turn into. One hand gripped Yuuji’s chin, the thumb pressing onto his lower lip and forcing his mouth open. Yuuji looked at him and saw all four red eyes staring right into his mouth, to the back of his throat, and soon the thumb followed the gaze.

Yuuji felt Sukuna’s finger rubbing over his teeth, then press on his tongue, turning his moans thick and wet. Underneath him, Sukuna was moving impatiently, his body blooming with heat and desire that Yuuji could taste on his breath.

“Can you take me, I wonder?” Sukuna muttered. “You know I will have you anyway. I will have you as my own, I will take you and keep you. There won’t ever be anyone else for you but me, my little sorcerer, my vessel, my precious little Yuuji.”

Sukuna pressed his finger just right, in a way that made Yuuji’s whole body shiver, his gut knotting up tightly. He whimpered around the finger in his mouth, the noise making Sukuna’s gaze darken. The thumb slipped out of Yuuji’s mouth, drawing a wet trail down his chin, and Sukuna pressed with his fingers again, twisting his wrist and cruelly massaging the spot inside that made cries pour out of the boy. Yuuji rode the wave of pleasure, feeling it rise within and trying to wrench free. He felt like he was going to burst, like a swollen bruise about to split open, and he wanted it, he wanted Sukuna to bleed him all over himself.

And Sukuna wanted to bleed him, Yuuji saw. That obscene hunger was plain on his face as Yuuji stared up to the King with slitted eyes. Sukuna wanted it, his fingers commanding him, stuffing him to the brim and demanding it from him. Yuuji squeezed his eyes shut. He felt the peak coming fast, the bursting of the bruise, the gutting of the animal within, and he howled when he came.

Yet he refused to spill even a drop on Sukuna’s belly, only releasing the fire from his blood and falling back into his arms, sweaty and boneless. Sukuna wrapped him in his arms as if to keep and leaned over to lick his nape, dangerous teeth grazing over the knobs of the spine. He was like a thunderstorm, oppressive and inevitable, a deep rumble in his chest and the crackle of his powers making Yuuji’s hair stand up on end.

He turned his head in the cage of an embrace despite the demon running his teeth over him. Yuuji saw the side of Sukuna’s head, his black hair cherry blossom pink on the tips.

“I will have you in me before the sun rises,” Yuuji declared, the ritual crystallizing in his mind. “I will take you inside and keep you.” Sukuna leaned back and stared, plain excitement on his face. He looked like he was about to eat the whole world. He looked victorious. “Yes,” he said. Yuuji returned the gaze, forever defiant. He tapped his lips twice. “Kiss me,” he said.

Sukuna looked amused even in his single-minded desire. “For you, I shall.”

[animehouse-moe]

Oshi No Ko Episode 1: Overhyped To The Moon, Or, Crucifying An Adaptation

A release schedule that's had the first episode in the works for a month in the making. Ninety minutes of content to start. An Akasaka story. This first episode, and its subsequent reaction, is like throwing a dud of a bomb and everybody pretending that it went off. But why? Well, even though I'm a fan of Akasaka's work, and even if I suggested the license to various publishers through their suggestion channels, I feel like an explanation is owed to the overhyped mess that appeared today.

A Nine Point Three Six on MAL. You know, the website where FMA:B reigns supreme and anything that challenges it is review bombed into oblivion? The site where the next highest rated anime is at a 9.11? Yeah, that MAL.

This is Doga Kobo's highest rated series, by Over One Point Three points. That's the Akasaka Difference™, and it's insane.

Let me dispel any preconceptions you might have about it. It is nowhere near that number. It's nowhere near A-1's adaptation of Love Is War. Oshi No Ko does have an interesting, if not abrasive, story for its first episode. But that can't carry it that high. It's story can't get rid of the limitations that Doga Kobo has, it can't get rid of flaky and flat direction, it can't get rid of shallow work that relies on the individual.

So, allow me to paint a more accurate picture of this first episode, starting at the bottom. Doga Kobo is... a studio. Not a particularly outstanding one, and one that hasn't had any "big" titles in its repertoire for a long time now. Arguably, their most memorable titles such as Plastic Memories, which are the poster children of the studio, are well out of their prime now. The majority of their higher rated series are 5 or even 10+ years old now. Stuff like Yuru Yuri, stuff like Nozaki-Kun, stuff like... stuff like. Would you consider New Game? Or Gabriel Dropout? I guess really, they only have Plastic Memories for the average anime fan.

They're not a studio that you entrust with big projects or names. Not that they can't deliver adaptations that make full use of and more of their source material like Nozaki-Kun, but that was almost a decade ago now. It's been over a year since Doga Kobo had an anime that was over a 7 in score, and I'd be surprised if their average score for the last 5 years could punch above a 7.3 (side note: excluding Oshi No Ko, it can't. It doesn't even break 7, it sits at 6.99).

Alright alright I swear on my life this is the last piece of Doga Kobo/OnK slander before I start getting to the episode itself. That would be the director. A career Doga Kobo in-house man, Hiramaki Daisuke has had forays into other studios for an episode or two and even some storyboarding, but has stayed close to home for his biggest projects. You know, big works like An Angel Flew Down To Me, or Selection Project (which is another Idol Anime), or Koisuru Asteroid... Also, you might be wondering, "Why is the direction so bad at times, and so much better at others?". Well, to the astute and curious people out there that had the same thoughts as me, it's because there's Five people credited with episode direction for it. So, odds are you're picking up on the direction changes that are of issue with the episode. I'd have to find proper time frames and everything to give real answers, but I'd say there's probably two episode directors in this first episode that offer solid direction. Anyways, point made, moving on.

The first half is painful. At a glance you might think "oh this isn't too bad", but when you get into it, in a single sitting, it's hard to get through. The direction and delivery is incredibly flat, and it relies totally on the energy that the quality VAs bring in.

It's a lot of single character and focus frames that suck any originality or uniqueness from the content, and causes it to feel like it's just droning on as we suffer an onslaught of dialogue that's ill-equipped to match the visuals.

I could pull hundreds of these layouts from the first half of the episode alone. Conversation bounces back and forth between incredibly static characters, closeups that can hide detail, and any number of other tricks. Of course, it's not that it's all terrible or lazy, but that the overwhelming direction is of this lazy and flat nature.

And this is where the core issue arises. As a visual adaptation, it's plain rough. The character designs are alright, if not a pretty big overgeneralization of the art of Oshi No Ko, and the art is solid enough, but it has nothing to give itself a leg to stand on. The direction is limp, the animation only in bursts, and the whole appeal is almost nonexistent to the manga.

They use transitions rather than animation or more creative cuts, they reserve everything for a few moments in the episode, it's just something that can't hold a candle to what the manga can do with its medium.

Just look at this stunning animation. Doesn't it just scream quality work? I wish I could give more examples (I could find a good few if I wanted to slog through 90 minutes again), but Doga Kobo is crafty with it. They very rarely show full characters in motion, and hardly is there more than one person moving in a scene.

I've said it a lot, but it really is just bad enough that I have to say it a few times. I wouldn't have to, if people were to take it at face value, but as it closes in on a 9.5 on MAL it's impossible to separate.

Now, I wouldn't say that all of it is bad. The second half of the episode seems to pick up on the fact that it's meant to do something, but that thought only appears... about 35% of the time.

Thankfully, that 35% appears awfully close to each other, and we get stuff like Ai's Idol scenes. They're well choreographed, and incredibly well animated compared to the rest of the episode. It's fluid, it's creative, and there's lots of moving parts to it. I just wish there was more of that quality in the rest of the episode.

Truthfully I think it's a good example of where the talent and ability comes from in the episode. The idol part has a measuring stick. You can find similar direction in real idol performances, and the flair/impact frames are found later on in the episode (most likely from the same animator).

What I can say at the end of it all, is that this clip is as good as it gets, by a pretty large margin. The direction adds emotion to the clip, the animation heightens it, and the anime original aspect of the music and choreography is the icing on the cake. But in reality? I'd say it's good. Not great, not outstanding, and certainly not worth its outrageous score on MAL.

Oshi No Ko has good pieces, but not a good whole. You can take parts of it out and say "yeah, I think the layout for this scene is really solid and makes use of the full frame afforded by an anime vs a manga panel", but you don't watch an anime in pieces, you watch it as an episode, a total experience. So yeah, you'll get some nice pieces like below, but you're trading off everything I've already talked about and then some for it.

Is it really worth it? Is it really worth that insane score that lords it over other entries this season like Heavenly Delusion, Demon Slayer, Hells Paradise, Skip and Loafer, MahoYome or GWitch? I think the obvious answer is no. Akasaka's story certainly has charm and talent within, but as an adaptation, I really had no interest in most of everything that Doga Kobo gave it, especially considering that they dropped content from the first volume still.

[gaast]

What do you find most attractive in fictional characters? Give one physical trait and one personality trait if possible!

"If possible."

It really all depends, but you know that, on a basic level, I'm a sucker for blond anime boys for some reason. If they're the type to just smile mysteriously instead of answering a question about themselves, so much the better.

But I think my favorite characters in general are the ones who are determined to do what they think is right regardless of how painful or self-destructive it might be to do so, or how futile it might be overall (Hikigaya Hachiman, Lightning Farron, Siffrin). As you can see, I also really like characters who have to learn how to be vulnerable and learn how to (let themselves) express their feelings, especially with people they come to consider family.

I LOVE when characters are cheerful and never fully lose their optimism but have to acknowledge that they have been wrong wrong wrong and hurting people who they care about and let their friends help pick them up and learn and grow (Rex, and, in a way, Luke fon Fabre). But I also really love when characters just let themselves descend into their worst tendencies, acknowledging their own flaws while refusing to change them, just becoming a poisonous wreck incapable of forming meaningful comnections in favor of idolizing the self (Isamu Nitta, Albedo Piazzolla).

Of course, I also adore supremely cheerful characters whose lives are so fucking tough and to whom the world is almost nightmarish and who absolutely refuse to let that stop them from being happy and kind and helpful and naive (Marona, Sora). I love when characters who dont deserve that nightmare world decide to take revenge on it and then find the people they love and calm down and find peace and forgiveness in their hearts (Roxas, Axel, Walnut, Godot). But I also love when characters who wanted so desperately to do good end up so broken that they decide to become the villain (Big Boss, Lusamine, Guzma, Egil, Sprout).

Of course, I also adore characters who INSIST that they are evil but only if you frame it the right way (Laharl, Rozalin). I mean, characters who know they're evil but have a pathos about them get me too (Sigma, Metallia). But I think better than even those is when a nightmarishly powerful, truly deadful, overhwelmingly evil character decides to allow themself to change and be changed and become better people (Killia, Lambda).

But shoutouts to idealists who fall and never comfortably fit into villainy (Jin), idiots with ahoges who Blue Screen over something truly devastating happening to them only to decide their own new identities and throw off the reigns of the patrons who had for so long been manipulating them (Yumihiko Ichiyanagi, Shulk), and the characters who the developers didn't even realize they were queercoding (or maybe they did) who let us read so much pining into them it hurts (Reyn, Neku Sakuraba).

Also I love love love love LOVE when a character will sacrifice themself to protect someone, even if it's fucking STUPID of them and all they need to do is TRUST PEOPLE (Simon Blackquill), and characters who trust the protagonist but who the protagonist just can't trust implicitly (Klavier Gavin), and those very protagonists (Apollo Justice), and, yeah, I love a lot of characters and types.

I just love complexity and messiness and idealism in the face of despair (Makoto Naegi) and despair in the face of hope (Nagito Komaeda). I love bastards who know they're bastards, I love good people who fought long and hard to be good people and who will never acknowledge it (Solid Snake), I love good brothers (Gladion), I love cute friends (Hau), I love happiness and joy and I love sadness and despair. I love a lot. I have a lot of love.