#scripting dialogue is my own personal hell

[ann-chovi]

Been feeling a bit down about my lowered energy levels and how I don't feel like my art is coming as easily as it did a year and a half ago

but like

I just found sketches and things that I was PROUD of from that time and... I know I could do so much better now???? Like- here brain, here's proof that you haven't gotten worse over time- you've improved. Yeah it's a little slower going now but... that's okay???

Like:

Compared to:

ANYWAY. BRAINS ARE DUMB. AND SOMETIMES YOU NEED TO LOOK AT OLD THINGS TO FEEL OKAY ABOUT WHERE YOU'RE AT.

[nouearth]

love in the making.

grant gustin x male reader.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. the talk of the town is the production of a new picture starring hollywood's elite star, grant gustin and his co-star, you! as the chemistry between you and grant escalates, so do the tabloids, and the executives aren't happy. what will happen to your relationship with grant when the studio takes matters into their own hands?

𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. one-shot [ 13.6k ].

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳 mid 1950s!au 〳 coworkers!au 〳 movie star!grant 〳 up and coming actor!reader 〳 smoking 〳 yearning 〳 slow-burn(?) 〳 gossip columns 〳 soap opera type of drama 〳 sexual content: top!grant, bottom!reader, anal penetration, breeding, kissing, spitting, blowjob (r!giving), praising, body worship, snowballing.

The leathery smell of cigar permeated the room. Grant added to the thickness in the air with several puffs, then suddenly modulated his breath when he realized it was his turn to run through his lines.

“Pardon me, Katharine. Your voice was so mesmerizing, I nearly fell to a slumber. Where were you when my mother ran out of bedtime stories to tell?” Grant cleared his throat, fulfilled by the laughter scattering from one person to the next while Katharine Scott, the leading lady of the picture, turned scarlet.

He began reading his dialogue.

It was half of the truth. Grant just didn’t bother mentioning that you’d been on his mind since the minute you walked in and introduced yourself -- that would’ve garnered a peculiar reaction. Aside from the screenplay, Grant’s eyes often meandered to you when they needed a break. The words on the script were beginning to scramble like alphabet blocks.

Before the tables were pushed together for the read-through, he noticed how your feet were crossed at the ankles, toes tapping to a rhythm he never noticed. In moments where the writer consulted with the director about the wooden dialogue, Grant could hear your muted taps speed up. Were you nervous? You had to be; you only had your foot in the industry for barely more than a year -- which was apparent.

You still had that humility in your smile.

Maybe it was frustration? Grant chewed on a pen he was holding as he attempted to decipher those pursed lips of yours. It was the color of flesh -- as it should be -- but why did he find them so… entrancing? It wasn’t just the color that got to him, but also the texture. They looked soft, really soft, as you ran through your lines with Katharine. Soft like your voice when you said your name for the first time. Soft like the grip of your handshake, which Grant knew you were well-aware of because you suddenly tensed your fingers at his fingers, nails into his palm, to compensate for your lack of callous. Soft like the ham and cheese bagel he had this morning, you would bite your own lip from how indistinguishable the bread roll and your mouth were from one other.

He chewed harder at the thought. Why does Grant want to see that happen?

“Grant? It’s your line.”

When Grant’s vision focused harder on your lips, he realized your mouth was aiming directly at him. Separating and closing, all for him. He immediately perked up.

“What—oh. Right. Where were we…” Grant felt warmth creeping up his neck, rubbing at it to ward off the heat. He only made it worse as it climbed to his chin and mouth, the taste of heat almost perceptible when he fought it off with a lick of his lips. “Gross, what the hell is—“

Metallic, acidic, and bitter on his tongue -- it was a taste that made him fully alert to the blue stain on his script. Then quickly after, the peculiar heat dripping off the corner of his mouth.

“Grant, you have—“ He watched you conceal a gasp when he turned to you, but your eyes -- everyone’s eyes -- made it perfectly clear that he needed to break this habit of chewing pens.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you will excuse me…”

He should’ve listened to his mother when he was little.

“Just my luck…”

Grant was bent over the sink, scrubbing away at his face with a soapy hand. He was dressed down to his undershirt, figuring he’d address the stain on his dress shirt later in the evening.

It was almost like there was an invisible force field around his chin because the ink stain was refusing to wash out. Grant was certainly in a better position than before, but he could still make out that splotch of grey-blue, muted from his unrelenting efforts to look somewhat presentable again.

“Grant, you all right? I’m coming in,” He recognized your voice immediately and perked up at the prospect of seeing you again, even if he really ought to know better than to be happy to see someone in this predicament.

Especially a handsome one.

“I think it’s coming off, you think? Could be my flesh that I’m tearing away at, but if it works…”

It was natural to glance at someone when they enter the bathroom. Humans are naturally inquisitive people. Innovation and evolution weren’t the result of keeping to oneself. What wasn’t natural was staring, particularly when it came to a man’s face, which seemed to have been exasperated from adrenaline.

You were panting and heaving as you made your way to counter. Grant took notice of your necktie, swinging from side to side with every step you took. You must’ve forgotten a tie clip. If not, then it must’ve fallen sometime between the moment he left the room and you entering the bathroom.

He had to admit, you looked—

“Keep at it and you’ll find the city of Atlantis,” you stifled a chuckle when Grant washed off the soap suds again, only to reveal what many would presume to be a rather strange five o’clock shadow.

Well, half of one.

“Speaking of finds,” he grabbed a handful of paper towels to dry his face, then nodded towards the paper bag that you had set on the counter. “What’s the loot?” Grant asked, partly because he wanted to distract you from watching him any longer and because he was simply curious.

Once again, inquisitive people drove evolution. In this context, Grant would like to get to know you more -- for the sake of the motion picture, of course.

“Went to the general store and thought you might need these,” you began unpacking the bag one by one.

A package of bar soap, a tin of cold cream, and a modest bag of assorted fruit chews. “Soap? We have soap right here.” Grant recognized the logo on the bag, there was a candy store west of the studio lot. He wondered where you went first. Did you get hungry during your brisk shopping trip, or was the general goods store on the way and you needed to kill time?

“Yes, well, that’s hand soap. You need Ivory soap, which is hydrating and better for your face. Hand soap will dry you out.”

He also wondered why you were helping him out. Not that people don’t go out of their way to help a celebrity of his status, but often, he could tell when someone was contriving flattery.

“What about the tin?” Grant asked. With one hand, he picked up the tin and analyzed the engraved packaging against the light.

You began rummaging through your bag of fruit chews. “Cold cream. It’s what my mother uses to remove her makeup. Use that before you wash your face. It should help melt the stain,” Pink wrapper, it was a strawberry chew. Grant deduced that it also must have been your favorite flavor since you searched high and low for it, flicking past the greens, blues, oranges, and yellows.

Replaying it back in his mind made him chuckle. He had been inside the candy store before, usually spending a few cents on chocolates for his dates. Still, the store was a marquee for locals who wanted to self-serve their candy bags and that hadn’t gone unnoticed. A buffet of confectionery to put it persuasively, which made Grant laugh again at the thought of you picking out the strawberry chews.

You could’ve avoided the trouble by not packing the other flavors at all.

“It’s for women… ‘She’s engaged, she’s lovely, she uses cold cream,’” The irony of the tagline shared a brief fit of laughter between you and Grant.

It felt good to hear you laugh, even if it was quite apparent that you were restraining yourself to lower the chances of choking on a fruit chew. Death was inevitable as much as it was arbitrary, and Grant was not letting a handsome man like yourself be the first case of ‘death by candy, and a badly timed joke.’

Besides the point, you were benign. Your knowledge in women’s beauty products caused a case of interest, and that made Grant want to excavate your formality even more.

“You look like you belong in the Looney Tunes, Gustin. That should be the least of your worries,” he watched you primp yourself in front of the mirror, minor adjustments to your hair where the gel had fallen loose. “Anyway, I’ll get us some lunch. They said we’ll resume in a bit. You like salami? I know a place that makes a great Italian sandwich. Good fries too.”

With autumn approaching, the weather was only getting windier. By dint of the way a strand of hair fell delicately over your forehead like the stem of a cherry, Grant figured he should make amends with the upcoming season if it meant he would be seeing more of you fixing your tousled hair.

“Actually—wait for me, yeah? I prefer dining in for lunch, can’t stand soggy fries,” Grant opened the tin of cold cream and was instantly hit with a whiff of nostalgia -- something of gardenia and vanilla all at once. He must have smelled this at his mother’s vanity at some point in his life.

“Well, you must hurry because I had nothing but double the allotment of caffeine. I feel like Lucy in that one run where all she had for dinner were mints,” you were referencing an episode of I Love Lucy, adjusting your tie in between glances.

He slathered on the white paste and rubbed at the stain on his chin. Grant wouldn’t have guessed this was part of a woman’s nightly routine. If he ignored the floral notes, the product resembled shaving cream for the most part.

“‘There’s nothing quite like a good after-dinner mint,’” Grant quoted a line from the same episode you had mentioned. In retrospect, he was glad he shelled out a couple hundred bucks for the hottest commodity of the decade. He had never seen someone’s eyes light up the way yours did.

If the building was set on fire and everyone had to be evacuated, Grant wouldn’t have known by virtue of your radiant smile -- it was disorienting. Whether or not he would’ve made it out in time… the matter of the fact was that his fate was entirely dependent on you, and Grant was surprisingly at ease with that proposition.

You cleared your throat when it registered that the stare shared between the two of you had stopped you in your tracks, Grant in his. The silence was almost tangible. Grant wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at your eyes, then your nose, and then your lips again. That information served no purpose, only to embarrass him with the strong chance that it might’ve been too long.

Much too long for him, he began noticing your delightful cologne and not the smell of floral and vanilla. If he took a step closer, maybe he could—

“You can wash it off now. I’m curious to see if it works.”

For now, Grant was content on watching you at arm’s length, eating your favorite piece of candy and laughing as you tidied yourself.

It seemed like he was only beginning to scratch the surface.

It had only been a little more than a week of principal photography, but Grant was quick to inform himself of the director’s social cues. Sucking in his bottom lip meant that something regarding the scene was off -- whether it be the lighting, the wrinkle in a shirt, the fumble of dialogue, or the stiff movement of the actors. He was a meticulous man, stopping a take when Grant’s hair wasn’t as slicked back as he had envisioned. Imposing at times, but the general kindness kept the set rather freeing.

Today, Grant received a firm nod behind the camera.

“You got a light?” Grant asked with a cigarette between his lips, patting his pockets only to leave with empty hands. He pulled a chair next to where you had been studiously scribbling notes on your script. He couldn’t have read it if he tried -- and he had tried once -- chicken scratch hadn’t left your fine motor skills anytime soon.

“Uh-huh. Every apartment has one if you find the right landlord,” you said dryly, flashing a cheeky grin and continuing to annotate the script in your hand.

“Cute,” he snickered while you fished a lighter out of your pant pocket. It wasn’t your scheduled smoke break yet, it was often reserved right before lunch. You figured that you mind as well get one out of the way since the clock was nearing lunch time anyhow.

Lighting up your cigarette, you drew in a breath of tobacco and felt it cloud over your brain after, tempering the stress signals with warmth. “Here,” your thumb remained on the flint wheel while your free hand hovered over the flame to block the desk fan. The wick of fire bridged the distance between you and Grant as you both leant forward to ignite his cigarette.

His hand rested on yours, gently bringing the lighter closer to the end of his cigarette stick, and stabilized itself until the tobacco was lit.

It shouldn’t have felt intimate. It was probably from the smoke, wasn’t it? The type of buzz that made Grant hallucinate all and everything around him -- black crows if he was in a troubled sate. In this case, it was the tremble of your hand when Grant held it, unsteady like the lighter’s flame before you had capped it. It was the look you gave him, aggravated if it was from most men, but almost imploring on your end. It was the silence that bestowed between the two of you, the type where Grant knew you could tell he was staring at you now, because you began scribbling arbitrary patterns on the margins of your script.

He should probably tell you that the scribbles were merging with your annotations, but Grant had to be careful. Otherwise, he was going to open his mouth and give you an earful of lunacy, starting with “Your hands are cold” and ending with “Can I hold them for longer?”

“So, what’s for lunch today?” You asked, stretching your arms overhead. Grant watched your fingers closely as they fanned out and held nothing but air.

“I could go for a hamburger. You?”

“Something light for me… think I’m coming down with a bug. My stomach suddenly hurts.”

Grant regretted letting go now.

“We missed you at shooting today. And yesterday. And the day before that. Mainly Wilder though—he likes how you can get scenes done in one take.”

You were caught off-guard hearing Grant’s voice through the handset. Even if he was calling from the other side of town, there was something about his presence that made you sit up and spruce up your surroundings, not forgetting your own appearance, of course.

“Well, that’s comforting. I’m sorry—how exactly did you get my telephone, Grant? Where are you calling from?” It must have been the hoarse sound of your voice that made Grant laugh into the handset. You could see it now, his smile.

“Don’t worry about that—and from my hotel. What you should be worrying about is your health. Why are you still up?” Grant started out lighthearted at first, but then muttered, like the weight of his concern strung his voice along.

Really, you ought to sleep. The positive of being sick meant that you could leisure all day and not feel guilty about watching television, even if you had outdone your daily average by a margin. The negative? Your senses were heightened by tenfold, which was ironic because your sinuses were blocked. That didn’t matter whatsoever. What did matter was that you kept waking multiple times throughout the night because your bed was either too warm, too cold, too soft, or too hard.

Now, sleep was as elusive as seeing Grant. It had only been a couple of days, yet you began to feel off -- which could be another symptom of the flu in hindsight.

“It’s wash day. I’m soaking my clothes as we speak,” you flicked off the television to hear Grant better. The rain was pouring down hard on your window.

“You do your own laundry?” Grant asked. He sounded genuinely astonished.

Picturing his expression alongside, you couldn’t contain your laughter any longer. “I am an adult, Grant.” Your toes said otherwise as they wiggled in your socks in complete bliss.

Hearing Grant’s voice was a much-needed energy boost -- way more effective than the oranges you had been eating, but not on par with the programs you had been watching. He’ll get there soon.

“I usually have my housekeeper do it for me,” he confessed.

It was no surprise. You read all about it in the papers before, how the wealthy hires a live-in help, or a nanny if the household contained a family with more than enough kids. They were all cut from the same cloth either way.

“And have you noticed any silk ties going missing?” You asked in jest.

“Now that you mentioned it—“ Before Grant could finish, you laughed, picturing his expression screw into realization that he hadn’t worn his red necktie in a bit.

Objectively, it made sense. The last thing you would want to do is clean the bathroom after coming home from work. It was a luxury you would like to have the option to afford one day, but for now, having a housekeeper was merely that—an option.

You had a much more ambitious goal in mind, and that was making an impact on Hollywood. “Case adjourned.”

Grant’s laugh suggested defeat, and you were all too familiar of the long silence that would come after. If he was here face-to-face, you both would sit in the sound of white noise, or the beating rain in this case, and simply stare at each other.

You weren’t sure when or how it came to fruition, and in the end that didn’t matter—because it was nice.

It was nice to be free from all things interfering with Grant.

“What was for dinner?” He asked, instantly reminding you of the emptiness in your stomach.

“I overslept—well, as overslept as one could be when all they have on their agenda for the day is to die in bed while watching re-runs.”

“Dying to one of Lucille Ball’s shenanigans doesn’t sound too bad. If you time it right, the audience can laugh when you exhale your very last breath,” you laughed at Grant’s morbid mind. “I’ll come over then.”

“You don’t know where I live, Grant. And no, I might pass the bug to you. You’re the production’s biggest asset. We can’t afford any more delays if you fall sick too.”

“I do, actually. The apartment with the orange accents. It’s all everyone talks about because it’s so bright. And I’ll be fine, (M/N). I shot quite a bit of my scenes already. I know you’re a rising star, but the whole world doesn’t stop for you, sweetheart.”

Hearing Grant call you ‘sweetheart’, even if it was said in jest, had you thinking of several different situations in which he would say it again -- preferably in earnest.

“It should. All the take-out places in my neighborhood closed early. What I would do if I had the world in my palm…” From the couch, you looked solemnly out your window, watching blocks of buildings sleep in the shadow of the moon. Your stomach growled as the rain poured harder.

“Even as a dictator, you wouldn’t be able to stop me from coming over. I’ll be there in a split.”

“But it’s raining—“

The line ended with a buzz.

“You know, you don’t have to keep checking up on me, or even bring me food for the matter. I stocked up on some ‘TV Dinner,’” you took a whiff at the steaming bowl of lobster bisque, putting your sinuses to the test. Still nothing. Giving up, you took a sip.

“No wonder you’ve been complaining about your throat! At least buy the meatloaf one,” Grant poured you a cup of orange juice before putting the jug back, rummaging through your freezer after. “And since we’re on the subject… I’ll try one of these bad boys out.”

It was strange seeing someone in your kitchen, let alone your apartment. As unfamiliar was it was, you couldn’t lie and say that you hated it. It was easier to talk to Grant, on the couch and eating a meal together, than it was with a bunch of people interrupting their conversation for either one of them, sometimes both, to do another take.

“Have you ever been offered the chance of being a mystery guest?” After finishing dinner, you curled up on one end of the sofa while Grant sat on the other, arms sprawled over the back and feet cushioned separately by a foot stool.

You and Grant were watching a late night re-run of ‘What’s My Line?’ Four panelists had to question contestants to determine their line of work with only yes-no questions. Toward the last round of every episode, there would be a celebrity mystery guest in which the panelists sought to determine the identity of while blindfolded. For tonight’s episode, the panelists were still stumped on the first contestant’s ‘occupation’—which hardly seemed fair because it was then revealed that she was a victim of a knife-throwing accident.

They let anyone participate these days.

“I have. I wanted to partake in it, but the studio rejected the idea.”

“Why’s that?” You asked, aghast.

Frankly, if you were in Grant’s shoes, you wouldn’t have take ‘no’ for an answer. Anyone who was anyone guested on that show. And if you were Grant’s manager, somehow scarcely able to believe you would even have the energy to be in meetings all day, you would have made his dreams come true. All of them, no matter how absurd they could be.

“They thought I’d be confused at the questions given to me,” Grant sounded aggrieved. You looked over. In the guise of his smile, you could tell those words still affected him. “I think I’m capable. I just lose my train of thought in front of a crowd sometimes.”

Which made the passing thought of being Grant’s manager only a fantasy as the guilt suddenly festered -- you believed those horde of headlines insulting his intellect once. Luckily, it had since dissipated once befriending him.

“Well, when the day comes, I don’t want you to tell me,” you confessed. “Leave the surprise to the broadcast.”

Though, it wasn’t like you thought lowly of him or made any disparaging remarks on his character because of those articles. Rather, you simply pitied. You weren’t going to tell him that, however. He doesn’t need to know how deep your affection for his films and personages go. That he gave you the kick you needed to pursue this strange, yet fulling path -- you could taste the accolades right around the corner, even if you were still living in a dingy apartment.

The awful truth was that Grant also didn’t need to know that you had fallen harder for him -- the real him -- than any other roles he had played. Maybe it was his gorgeous looks that projectors couldn’t do justice. Or the clumsy nature that strangely fit his otherworldly persona -- something had to humble him. Or how he was doing this, bringing you soup every day and making himself comfortable in your own home, like it was his as well.

Or how he was looking at you right now, curled up on the other end of the sofa, his foot accidentally brushing over yours in midst of finding a comfortable spot.

You stretched your legs out when you suddenly felt tense in the body, turning away from the television set to face your body to the ceiling, your chin to your chest to keep your eyes on Grant, who began mirroring your position. It was like you two discovered telepathy for the first time; your leg occupying the gap between his thighs, Grant between yours. He turned the TV off like you had been wanting, filling the living space with complete darkness, and blindly skimmed his sock over your own.

Feeling his sock rub against your ankle stirred something inside of you, and it wasn’t reassuring that this urge only bloomed when Grant did it again. Once at your ankle, two at your calf. Whether this was his idea of a sick joke, you didn’t want that to be answered. Your senses were already heightened from the flu, the stillness in the room deafening, but the intertwined pairs of feet -- the sound of cotton caressing cotton -- alerting. Enticing.

It was an urge that seemed confined to Grant, you realized that when your body responded out of instinct and nudged his ankle and calf in retaliation. Not to get him to stop, but to silently convince him to resist -- because you were frightened you couldn’t any longer.

After a few more cycles of this—whatever activity you two were engaging in—Grant straightened his legs by your hips, seemingly complacent in this exchange by the sound of his chuckle.

“I’ll leave by dawn.”

“Good night, Grant.”

For the past couple of days, you had gotten into the habit of looking forward to Grant’s daily delivery of soups from a restaurant not too far from where he lived—three meals for breakfast, lunch, and dinner respectively. You had to admit, as delicious as they were, you were beginning to exhaust your taste buds of anything broth related. Substance was much needed, especially for a bite of the sandwiches that Grant had graciously introduced you to a couple weeks back.

However, you were feeling better, and that was the most important part—actually, scratch that.

The most important part was who was helping you recover from this aggravating bug. Sipping on the last spoonful of tomato soup, in hopes that your next meal would involve using your teeth, you were itching to resume filming.

At least you thought you did before you flipped through the daily paper. It was a still shot of Grant—blurry, walking down a sidewalk, hand in one pocket while the other was carrying a bag. That was normal, you had seen many of those in your lifetime.

What wasn’t normal was that you recognized the restaurant logo on the bag, the row of evergreens surrounding the perimeter, the distinct branding of the entrance of the building he was near.

Even if the photograph was in black and white, you could tell the handles and windows were painted with a shade darker than white. It made for a rather intriguing backdrop if you could choose to ignore the tightening feeling in your chest.

You started to panic as it became more apparent.

Orange.

“Shit.”

You braced yourself and read the headline.

HOLLYWOOD PLAYBOY STRIKES AGAIN: GRANT GUSTIN SPOTTED AT NEW ALLEGED LOVER’S RESIDENCE!

At first Grant thought he must have misunderstood. When he picked up today’s daily, he was half-expecting a gossip column regarding another one of his romantic adventures with a former co-star, the other half wishing the paper had focused on someone else for a change.

Last month’s column produced a rather in-depth, and slightly creepy, overview of his dinner with Miss Patton. He knew he had good reason to feel peculiar about the waiter serving them. If it hadn’t been for Miss Patton’s desperate plea to get a meal in her stomach as soon as possible, Grant would’ve demanded a switcheroo, effective immediately. The lanky, young man lingered far too long and asked too many questions for his liking, his presence alone made Grant’s Negroni Spritz go flat.

Did Grant’s reputation need to take another hit after finally recovering from those multitudes of fender benders a year and a half ago? Probably not -- Grant didn’t need to endure another hour-long chastising session about how his actions could damage the movie studio. It was all bluff anyway. Grant and the studio head both knew that scandals ushered in huge numbers, record-breaking attendances when it came to his most recent pictures.

Either way, had he known his private conversation with Miss Patton would become… well, not so private, Grant would’ve committed arson to the studio the night of. At least the executives could file an insurance claim based on the physical damage. Grant doubted there would be much validity to the claim if the reason provided was his inability to hold his tongue.

Luckily, Grant had since stopped pursuing after risks. It was what made a dent to his once speck-less Mercedes-Benz in the first place.

Dear God… my sweet Iris, what have I done to you?!

What he wasn’t expecting was—

“‘The Gustin Effect! Hollywood Heartthrob Grant Gustin Helps Local Restaurant Sell Out… Soups?,’” Grant repeated to himself. He was sweating as his eyes went over the large serif font for the nth time like skates on ice. He had to give it to The Daily Spring -- it wasn’t exactly an intriguing headline, but it made his heart race knowing the context. Regardless, it wasn’t exactly how he wanted to start off his day.

He suddenly felt compelled to pour another packet of sugar into his coffee.

“Keep reading, it’s a rather heart-warming article,” Grant’s manager said through the handset with a peculiar enthusiasm, as if the man wasn’t scolding him a few days ago for wandering about without telling him first. “Looks like we’re back on track, don’t you think?”

“As my manager, you’re supposed to be—I don’t know—warding off any worries that I might have. Not unsettle me any more than I already am…” Grant frowned, tucking the handset between his shoulder and ear before briefing into the rest of the gossip piece.

“What are you talking about? This is great news!”

“‘Local restaurant ‘The Cloud Room’ saw an unexpected surge in business after a photograph was published in the newspaper, showing movie star Grant Gustin holding a bag of the restaurant’s soups while en route to a secret rendezvous.

The image caught the attention of the public, leading to a wave of curious customers eager to try the same dish, dubbing the star’s powerful influence as ‘The Gustin Effect.’

With lines stretching down the block for the past three days, the possibility of the effect faltering anytime soon seems slim to none. The owners are considering expanding their hours to accommodate the growing number of customers drawn by the star's casual endorsement.’”

There were several more paragraphs, but Grant couldn’t be bothered to read any more of it. A sudden migraine had been festering the moment he laid eyes on the headline.

“Christ, Kid. You’re on a roll these days. I’d have to use both of my hands to count the number of articles written about you this past week. It’s impressive. If we play it right, then the upcoming picture could be your biggest hit yet. I know you’ve been clamoring for this moment, Kid.”

“Listen, I think I should—“ he groaned, rubbing at his temples.

“Oh, Grant. It’s just your typical fling, wasn’t it? Usually you sweeten a lady up with chocolates, but I guess… soup has its merit too. Nothing to worry about.”

Throbbing -- Grant’s head was throbbing now. He didn’t have the freedom to be indifferent to other people’s opinions. In fact, his career relied on it—on the public, on his manager, on his manager’s manager.

“No, the thing is—“

Now his hands were clamming up. He could feel the handset in his palm slipping, but he tightened his hold—because that was what people in his line of work did, right? If he was on the game show you and Grant were watching the other day, one of the questions would have been:

“Do you portray yourself as who you really are in your line of work?” “Are you free to express yourself however you wished in your occupation?” “Would people like the real person behind this persona of yours? Your parents, perhaps? Grandparents?” “Would you risk the comfort of your career for love?”

“I’ll run it by with the studio. Thank God for your little lady’s soup obsession because they were on my neck for letting you off my leash.”

Maybe his manager was correct in inducing this fear of the press, of anything that provided a space for a cluster of inquisitive people who sought for a piece of his life to sell.

Grant braced himself and exhaled, “It’s not a lady.”

Because Grant would answer all those questions with a resounding ‘No.’

“What, your brother in town? Do you even have a brother? Oh, it must’ve been your father then! Well, that will certainly fare better with the heads—”

All except one.

“It was (M/N).”

All the things Grant wasn’t saying sat heavy in his mouth. He wasn’t used to holding his tongue like this. Under normal circumstances, Grant would ramble non-stop about his favorite pastimes, like going up to Colorado to challenge the steepest ski run, or modestly luxuriating near the poolside at his mansion. It always got the conversation to a flying start with you.

Now, all of his efforts of building some kind of relationship with you seemed to be in vain.

Since Grant had revealed to his manager about his frequent visits to your apartment, there had been a constant stream of articles, propagated by the studio, about his love life, about his philanthropic efforts, about his wishes to build a family with a loving wife and four kids; all in the effort to bury his truth had it ever leak.

They brought his past flings back to the spotlight, even if he hadn’t communicated with these women in months. They brazenly brought you into the picture, gossip columnists regurgitating all types of bogus stories such as: your ego-trip when you demanded filming to stop because of your illness, your tantrum on set when Grant forgot his lines, your need to berate your assistant when she was as little of a second too late in fetching your coffee.

‘Inside sources,’ they’d call it—when really, these were excerpts manufactured from the publicity agent’s fictitious and unpublished novel, later trashed somewhere in the building to start a new one -- to find a new story for so-called ‘journalists’ would hound you with.

Articles about the alleged feud between you and Grant had only gotten more vicious and scathing on your end, and all Grant could do was watch in agony as the studio lot became a media circus, increasing day by day, week by week, with more photographers and reporters desperate to encounter these alleged incivilities. As a newcomer in the industry, it certainly raised your profile, but it was also to the detriment of your reputation -- a fact that everyone was content with considering the amount of coverage the film was receiving.

He had held onto your presence as a small comfort throughout the past bleak month, but even that necessity was taken away from him. More executives began coming onto set under the guise of quality assurance as shooting headed for its last week. Their intention became very much apparent whenever Grant would be inconvenienced with another obligation of shooting for more publicity stills.

Upon realizing you had done all your promotional material in solitude, there was nothing Grant had wanted more than to join you by your side. More so, when in a cursory attempt to blend in with your surroundings, you helped yourself to the catering service and tried to become interested in the employees. Grant knew you didn’t have enough energy in you to exchange more than a “How are you?” and some complimentary words about the food.

You didn’t stay much longer for the wrap party.

Nor were you even welcomed.

He was rarely in a situation where he could physically harm someone, but seeing the headlines the past month, how ostracized you had become during the last few weeks of filming, maybe the circumstances of his life would issue a free pass to do such heinous crimes out of the goodness of their heart -- especially since it pertained to you.

“You shouldn’t be here, Grant. Christ—someone could see you! How did you get here without someone following you?”

Before Grant was being sharply pulled into your apartment, he was contemplating on whether he should greet you with a reasonable “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you,” a pleading “It’s all my fault, please forgive me,” or a simple “Hi.”

The door clicked shut, and Grant mentally slapped himself out of his thoughts. Instead, it was none of that.

“Everyone got wasted by nine,” Grant revealed lightly; there was some apprehension that any louder, he would break you based on your meek appearance. “Your eyes are red.”

You made a dismissive noise, brushing Grant off as you passed him on your way to the bedroom. “It’s only been a month and you’re already forgetting the color of my eyes, Grant? I’ve been telling you to go to the doctor.

Grant followed. By simply watching your back, Grant noticed your walk had changed. “Stop. Stop that.” You walked too fast for your own good at times, missing shops because you had tunnel-visioned toward the front, but Grant easily caught up to grab your arm and stop you in your tracks.

Or maybe he was just getting accustomed to your pace before shit hit the fan.

“Stop what?” You turned, facing him as you leaned against your bedroom door with crossed arms. At your lower eyelids, Grant caught sight of tears forming along the waterline. He shouldn’t think that crying looked lovely on you, so he kept that thought to himself.

But it really did put him in a trance for a moment. During that moment of attraction, it couldn’t be helped that the open collar of your shirt also led various prospects nearly consume him and all of his being, making him take a step closer. His fingers brushed by the tip of yours, the wattage of the slightest physical touch making you flex your fingers like you were upholstered by secrets.

A month shouldn’t have felt that long, but this was the moment when it all came into fruition -- that Grant hadn’t properly spoken or seen you in a month. He remembered how he felt when you looked at him for the first time, something like a sensation coming painfully back to a numb limb. As torturous as it was, it made Grant feel alive.

“Stop pretending like you’re okay,” Grant swallowed hard, finding himself in a dilemma between wiping your tears for you or giving you the space you clearly needed, even if Grant had involuntarily done enough of that.

You scoffed, using the back of your sleeve to wipe your eyes. “I’m not pretending. I don’t even have stray cats in my balcony like I used to anymore to be okay for.”

“Stray cats would’ve brought you much more comfort than I ever could, I have to admit that,” Grant said, your face assuming an expression that led Grant to plausibly assume you would have disagreed. That, or he was simply toying with his delusions, knowing he couldn’t fathom the tangible truth of the damage his relationship with you had undergone.

He meant it when he didn’t want anything more than to join you by your side. Grant followed you to the sofa and sat next to you, knees and thighs touching. Hands—pairs of hand wishing they could hold you in between the passing silence.

“Why didn’t you call?” Grant didn’t think you mean for the reasonable question to sound as despondent as it did. He also didn’t think he has a lapse of control left, because you looked so fragile and nebulous—that despite his best efforts, Grant eventually slipped a hand into your palm because he was afraid acknowledging your existence would make you disappear.

He held you tighter.

“My hotel was under supervision… it’s not an excuse, I know. I should’ve tried to find a loophole. I couldn’t even write to you without the possibility of being caught. And when I was, they released more of those horrid articles about you. They were breathing down my neck, (M/N). I swear. I didn’t know what to do other than to… be complicit. I’m sorry. Truly. I’m a coward.”

“You’re not,” you sighed with eyes fixated on Grant’s hand in yours. “You have a lot more to lose than I do. I get it.”

He caressed his thumb over your palm, sparking some kind of will to exist by which he had the gentle squeeze of your hand to judge by. “Doesn’t mean it’s right, though. I don’t know, it all happened so fast. If I would’ve shut my damn mouth, none of this would have happened. I just—panicked. For God’s sake, it’s not like we’re…”

Lovers. Grant doesn’t think it was his imagination that something in you seemed to have unwound after the implication. If Grant hadn’t mentioned that he wasn’t great at comforting people, which he was confident that he had never told you, it counted for something when he was struck by the relief in your shoulders and hand, your palm seemingly sinking—but you didn’t have to fret, because Grant was there to catch you.

He was more capable at this than he had thought.

You chuckled over Grant’s reservation to even say the unspoken word, so you left him be. “My manager told me to lay low for the time-being and wait for the storm to pass. It’s nice to know I’m not fired or anything, they know it’s all deceptive.”

There was something so comforting in the ability to be physically touching you, in knowing that from here on out, Grant could simply take you by the hand, shut the door between the two of you and the rest of the world, and share your thoughts.

Maybe if all went swell, hand-holding wouldn’t be confined to a sad set of affairs. In Grant’s ideal world, holding your hand would also be the preface of something more, a bridge that allows him to cross his way over to you and explore all facets negative and positive, intimately so.

“We’re all pawns to the studio anyway. Vehicles that put in an extra floor to the building. Bad publicity is good publicity. It’s free marketing for the film. Scandals make stars, and you’re halfway there.”

Grant was sure of it. He had seen many other actors and actresses recover their careers with far worse rumors. The main priority was money, and as long as it didn’t stop the audience from filling up the theaters, there was no reason to drop a talent.

You brought your legs onto the sofa and crossed your legs facing Grant. “Is that supposed to be comfort me, Mister Fender Bender?”

“That was only three times—and, mind you, no one got hurt.” Grant followed suit. His bent knees pressed against yours. He had your hands opened in his palms as if telling fortune was second nature to him, tracing the lines embedded in your palm with an inquisitive index. “How am I supposed to comfort you, then? Tell me.”

Your hands weren’t much smaller than Grant’s, the fact had been known since the very moment you two had exchanged handshakes for the first time. Still, those beautiful appendages visited his dreams often. It hadn’t meant anything to Grant until one night, he was dreaming about the day he had his hand over yours as you lit his cigarette. The second night, he dreamed of you testing his temperature via the back of your hand to Grant’s forehead. The third night… well, Grant was ashamed to admit that his attraction had breached far into indecent territories by which helped him solve a night of endless tossing and turning in a matter of minutes.

Then multiple nights, because Grant since wholeheartedly accepted that this infatuation for your hands had actually preceded his deep affection for you.

Unless someone brought good reason that Grant should stop playing with your hands and obsessing over them, it wasn’t in his agenda to ever let go.

“You’ve done enough. I guess… I’m a little upset that I splurged on a new suit for nothing. I was going to wear it to the wrap party,” you huffed, idly playing a game of ‘Try To Catch Grant’s Finger.’ No prize money would be offered, just bragging rights—which did have some merit.

So far, you were losing.

Grant smirked as he managed to wriggle a finger out of your grip. Five points for him, two points for you. “Who said there can’t be one with just us two?”

“Cheater! And that’s called a date, Grant.”

“I would’ve stayed then.” Suddenly, the solution to end your pitiful evening slotted in place.

He sprung up from the sofa with a hop, smiling graciously at you. “Come on. On your feet. We’re bringing it to a place I know.”

For Grant to call his residence something as pedestrian and humdrum like ‘a place,’ as if all the great virtues and grandeur of the mansion had been entirely diminished because the construction of expanding his already-massive pool had been halted for whatever reason—you questioned, and was rather frightened to know, about what his idea of a party was. It soon became a momentary thought when Grant began giving you a brief tour around his mansion—and the amenities that came with it.

With its manicured gardens, gold-plated fixtures, towering columns that couldn’t have prepared you for the imposing entryway, Grant’s stately mansion exuded an aura of refinement and exclusivity, and you were in awe by the sense of splendor. You felt out of your element. It was extremely telling as you walked over the imported marble floors like they were made of crystals. Delicately caressed ornate sculptures stoned near every corridor because it would have been irresponsible for you to only observe the complex lines that made their forms so irresistible. It was the epitome of a lifestyle that you would never be able to afford, yet you weren’t jealous at all.

It was a spectacle for sure, but you couldn’t have possibly felt comfortable living with such large quantities of upkeep. Grant mentioned that his bedroom was his favorite, and that was what you could get behind. It wasn’t opulent like the rest of the resident was. It felt lived in, homely, comfortable, even though you were hyper-aware of the fact that his balcony practically contained another living space.

“Get changed in the bathroom. I’ll wait here,” Grant said, sitting on the end of his bed. You had never seen a king-size bed before, but the magazines weren’t lying when one of the print advertisements likened their mattress of that size to a cumulonimbus cloud.

The color of your bespoke formal wear spoke softly; champagne at the blazer and cedar at your slacks. The fabric so light, they almost seemed without substance. The great craftsmanship nearly made you empty a week’s worth of cigarettes in a day, but the tailoring of your suit, alongside the cut and detail, quickly separated you from the past appearance of a boy who had yet outgrown his father’s hand-me-downs to a well-dressed and confident man who paid his bills on time. Once you slicked your hair back for the final touch, you walked out of Grant’s bathroom to reveal yourself.

“I forgot my tie on your bed.”

Grant had opened his mouth to take another gulp of whiskey, but when he turned to look at you, his tongue was seemingly paralyzed in the back of his throat, suddenly coughing up the previous sip he had taken.

You laughed while you made your way to his full length mirror stationed by his closet. He was quick to follow behind, subsiding his raw throat with the last ounce of liquor and grabbing your tie on the way over.

“You look nice. Though, I didn’t take you to be someone who was keen on light colors. You always wore navy,” Grant said, turning you to face him by a gentle hold on your shoulders.

You tipped your head when Grant began to slip the necktie beneath your shirt collar. “Most of my clothes are from my father’s. I will say—as much as it made a dent in my wallet, it was nice buying something for myself for once.”

You tried not to be too obvious about looking at all facets of Grant; the careful attention of his gaze; the veins in his hands as he looped the cloth. In this moment, you came to realize that you wanted Grant in all the ways you were used to ignoring. This was different in the past, different from those peculiar exchanges between the two of you where playing footsie and skimming hands were simply done in the guise of naivety.

He caressed the green cloth in his hand while his gaze focused on yours, utterly complacent about how he compelled you to part your lips with a single look.“Well, you made a great choice. You look terrific. Handsome.” All so alluring, when he stalled further, slowly passing the fibers of silk between inquisitive fingertips. With one firm tug, Grant knotted the tie at your throat, pulling you closer to him in the process. “Beautiful.”

This was different because you knew Grant felt the same way.

“Beautiful?” You repeated for clarification. The word that came out of his mouth littered you goosebumps over your skin. Nobody had ever called you beautiful, you were sure you were the first man in history to be called as such.

You refused to believe this was a serious statement, but then Grant repeated cooly, “Beautiful,” and before you could counter, he pulled on your tie again, nearly closing the small distance between the two of you, and settled his lips on yours.

You collapsed into the kiss, like it was taking all the effort not to kiss Grant, and you were finally giving up. Grant knew that you wanted this, that by any sensible measure desperate for the taste of liquor to come from his mouth and pass into yours with the swap of his tongue. He knew it the way he knew that the Western End had the best suits in the city and that you needed a reservation for almost every restaurant in the district—it was a fact that he didn’t have to think about, and which everybody else knows, too.

You didn’t mean to make that noise come out of your mouth, but after suffering a lapse in Grant’s presence, his lips on yours felt like a whiskey sour on a hard day. It was much needed gift with the past few months you had been having. The softness and care in Grant’s lips made your breath shudder, one would think you had been laved by the cold sea, whereas you were actually melting, in Grant’s arms, gripping his lapel for balance.

“I missed you,” Grant said softly. He circled his arms over your hips, his hands sliding beneath your blazer because he needed to feel every muscle in your body tensing, to pull you impossibly closer to memorize how you fit in his arms.

You supposed you had to credit the liquor for his brazenness.

“I missed you too,” you collapsed into his arms, trusting the warmth of his embrace.

He kissed you in between breaths. “I missed you so much, I couldn’t function properly knowing you were hurting. Guilt was hollowing me from within,” Harder on your mouth, apparently coming to the conclusion that you relished in the roughness of his embrace, in the bruising link between your mouth and his, from the way you gasped and pulled more of him into you. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.” Palm deep against his nape, you pushed his head toward the slant of your jaw because you needed to recover your breath. Quickly, before you would risk the chance of collapsing on behalf of lost time, dispelling your last remaining breath inside Grant’s mouth out of desperation to overcompensate.

“I told you it was fine, Grant—“ You groaned when he began nibbling at the underside of your jaw. By virtue of his unstoppable desire, Grant propelled forward, holding you tight, and you stumbled back into the corner until your back collided with the wall, the impact drawing out a pleasurable hiss from your throat.

“It’s not. It’s absolutely not. You nearly drove me into talking to a shrink about you.” You nearly stopped Grant to have a proper conversation, without all these interruptions. Between his kisses and the gripping, you were an incoherent mess if the tightness in your slacks had something to go by, but you instead followed along, entranced by how Grant could look so stunning when all he was doing was undressing you.

He started with the tie. “But then, that would’ve made matters entirely worse upon the realization that… I was so in love with you,” he whispered over your bare throat after sliding the cloth off. Next, was your shirt. “And that it can’t be fixed. I can’t be fixed. I can’t fix myself now knowing that you feel the same way. You do, don’t you?” Then, your undershirt.

You swallowed hard. “I do. I entirely do, am so much in love with you. Grant—” You struggled to get the words out without giving into Grant’s delirious kisses on your bare body. Maybe if you had stumbled, it would’ve delayed his ravenous appetite for your body a second or so longer—but even then, you weren’t sure if you were capable of witnessing and being at the hands of a man who was so clearly starving.

“Oh, Grant—that’s very…” Good. Erotic. Attractive. At least one of those words you were meant to say, but it would’ve been a relic of a bygone touch. Being mouthed at your perky nubs was as indescribable a feeling could get, but then when Grant began licking over your body, slowly sinking onto his knees as he worked his way down your torso, sucking spots and licking marks you hadn’t had the faintest idea about—you were reduced to the role of a whimpering bystander by which ultimately stripped your brain beyond words.

Grant undressed the lower half of you—all but your brown socks—and you had long accepted the fact that it was inevitable in showing Grant how much you enjoyed giving him free rein to your body. Your erection was strong, a reveal of flesh that made him suck in his lips to keep himself from ravishing you already.

“You’re leaking,” you wanted to hide and crawl in a ditch somewhere. It was embarrassing as Grant marveled over the thick trail of pre-cum that tagged over his fingertip when he curiously dipped a finger over your glans.

“Well, don’t comment on it…”It was like he read your mind, because Grant placed a warm palm on your stomach to prevent you from enacting on your wishes, ultimately trapping you in place by the gentle strokes over your cock. “Fuck…” you watched with bleary eyes, all sorts of feelings stockpiling to feed your endorphins

In turn, you felt your skin blossom with heat, patches on your neck and chest burning, because Grant refused to take his eyes off of you. He stroked your cock ardently while assuming an expression of treacly sentiment, like he couldn’t believe his dreams had become a reality. Watching you writhe over the wall, leak over his twisting fist, bite your moans into your hand; these were the exact amenities you would’ve have wanted had you sought for a mansion of your own. Not the towering stairwells, or the ornate carved fountain, or even a separate room for the live-in housekeeper.

Just Grant, his presence, and his magical touch. That was all you needed.

“Wait, wait. Grant, stop—“ You begged a second too late. Your balls tightened when Grant’s hand was only more relentless upon your desperate pleas. His hand massaged your thighs, lips mouthed at the underside of your sack. The prospect of you returning the favor for Grant—or better, with your mouth, hoarding what had yet to be revealed deep down your throat—made you shudder with a release. “Fuck—”

“It’s okay. I’ve been meaning to taste you…” Upon the violent tremble of your thighs, Grant scooted closer, deftly angling and pumping your cock over his open mouth, and let you shoot. You blinked past tears as you felt yourself spill thick shots in Grant’s mouth, over his tongue as he cradled your seeds like they were precious metals, and at the last second, over his face because you stumbled out of his grasp and caught yourself on the wall, heaving.

It had taken a moment for you to catch your breath, shutting your eyes as the tremor in your body would jolt from out of the blue. It was all too much, the sweet relief courteous by the man you loved. You were embarrassed by how quickly Grant had unraveled you, but that was certainly a testament to your attraction to him, or to his skills.

When you opened your eyes, Grant pulled you by the hips for another kiss. A strong embrace to control the tides in your body. Then, a wet and sloppy kiss to clarify that Grant wasn’t done yet, as he breached your mouth with his tongue and surprised you by passing cum into your mouth. It was an ongoing battle, the thick substance swapping from tongue to another, the bitter notes subsiding as more saliva snowballed into the mixture. Between the lewd exchange, Grant began undressing himself out of anticipation of what would come next.

“Swallow,” Grant broke the kiss with a whisper, resting his forehead on yours to feast his eyes on the very prospect of you fulfilling his demand. It was an immense pull of attraction, the slow cascade of his hand over your spine following along with it, that made you gulp the thick content in your mouth. He seemed satisfied when your throat bobbed, smiling. “Good?”

“I imagine yours would taste better,” you rested a hand over your his head, coming his hair back with your fingers until they reached the back of his neck, offering you leverage for another kiss—sweet and clean on Grant’s lips.

“I wouldn’t mind if you tried me out,” Grant was already down to his briefs, his eyes subtly pleading for the sake of his thickened bulge. Prior to noticing, you had been roaming your hand over his lean body. His bare chest, the well-defined muscles breaking you of your fantasies—because it was better than you could have imagined. Grant looked about two seconds away from forcing you on your knees himself, but lucky for him, you were just as eager.

Sinking onto your knees, you carefully pulled down his briefs. Slowly at first, to compose yourself, but then to test your patience, because the length of Grant’s shaft seemed never-ending. When you fully stripped him of his briefs, you had to take a scoot back in fear that his impressive cock would hit you in the face.

Grant was massive, the weight of his length making it stoop forward and dangle with every step he took. There was one protruding vein that nearly made you drop everything and sucked him off right then and there, until he was fully hard in your mouth and you could feel more veins throbbing—but again, you needed to show him some type of restraint, even though at this point, you doubted that he cared.

“So, the rumors are true, then?” Instantly, you were taken back to a gossip column regarding Grant’s size. Whoever tipped those writers off should win a Pulitzer Prize.

Grant shrugged, apparently nonchalant at the fact that he could practically cover the length of your face with such ease. “Had no idea where that came from, honestly…” Holding his thighs, you briefly trialed the theory out under the guise of kissing the underside of his thick shaft. Between licking the flesh, kissing his balls, and fondling his cock, you were also completely immersed in the smell of his cock. He smelled like pure arousal, a peculiar saltiness in your nostrils as you breathed him in, from unkempt pubic hairs to the leaking tip. Nonetheless, it was gratifying as your cock responded in several twitches.

“I don’t think I can fit you in my mouth,” you said, aware that you were grinning like a fool.

“It’s the effort that matters,” he chuckled, his hand smoothening over your head to rest on your nape, pushing your mouth closer to his hardening cock. With one hand braced on his thigh and the other wrapped around the base of his cock, you felt Grant tense when you cradled the tip into your mouth with your tongue, sucking. “Your mouth is so warm, (M/N)…”

He was as salty as he smelled. The pre-cum coated your tongue nicely, resembling the taste of your cum prior, but somehow ten times more potent, as if you were drinking sex directly from concentrate. What was even nicer was how heavy your mouth felt when you took more of Grant in. It was like the weight of him had its own gravitational pull, separating your mouth wider to accommodate the massive girth like sucking a cock this big came second-hand nature to you. You reckoned that you should become quickly accustomed to it though, because you couldn’t fathom the idea of leaving Grant disappointed.

You and Grant were like this for a couple of minutes; Grant pushing out drips of spit with his mouth to add onto the wetness and you doing the same thing, pushing your saliva out and spreading the thick layer over his shaft with your hand to help ease the slide into your mouth. You could barely fit more than a few inches, your cheeks hallowing for as long as they could before the strain of the stretch had gotten to the nerves.

“Oh, fuck…” Grant moaned, having had enough of your sloppy strokes by robbing you of your recovery once more and greedily pushing his cock back into your warm mouth.

God, the way it looked… a reddened, fat swollen cock straining in the grip of your fist, a drop of pre-cum glistening heavy on the tip, a thick layer of saliva over the thicker size of his staff… the fact that you could see your own fingers struggling to wrap around his cock as you sucked him off—it all felt so very surreal, and so very real.

“You’re so big, Grant. Fuck…” You lifted your gaze and stared into Grant’s nebulous eyes. Somehow, it made the act ten times more obscene upon realizing that you were practically servicing him, on your knees, worshiping all facets of his body. His calves were toned against your lips, thighs sturdier as Grant made an effort to stabilize his stance following your teasing mouth working up his legs with ticklish kisses, then back to the head of his cock, where you began nibbling at the swollen head.

“Christ, (M/N)…”

He was always very expressive, but in the moment, he seemed at a loss for words. Dumbfounded, as you began using two hands to stroke what you couldn’t fit inside of your mouth. Swiveling and twirling his wet cock with your fists, all while you sucked and licked on his swollen tip, feeding into the rush that made his cock throb so hard in your mouth and hands, into the delightful sounds that revived your sensitive cock back with life.

Grant bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from making any sound. What came out were staggered breaths, clear evidence of his indulgence while his hips were moving without his volition. Your plump lips stretched wide around his pistoning cock, sucking and slobbering over the hot ample flesh, eyes wide and disbelieving, as if you couldn’t believe you could fit this much of Grant inside of your mouth.

It was endgame the moment Grant hissed and sunk in his stomach, flexing his abdomen under way—everything was building to the perfect eruption. You had your mouth opened, stroking him over your face to catch him with your tongue as he had done with you. Grant was close—so close that his face could make you spill for the second time of the night on the strength of his twisted expressions.

Your delusions consequently settled you in for a rude awakening when Grant suddenly pulled you up on your feet and kissed you hard, yet almost apologetically on the mouth. You whined against his lips, ultimately kissing him back because you couldn’t get a word in from how relentless he was being by which you couldn’t blame—the agony of being nearly relieved would’ve wrecked havoc on your mental state.

“I need to be inside of you first, please—“ Grant begged hot on your neck. He backed you into his bed until your backside collided with the mattress upon the push of his hand. Then your chest, when Grant took free liberty of your body and bent you over.

The first thing on your mind was that, “God, this mattress was lovely,” but the second you felt something wet spread over your hole, all the compliments you had reserved dissipated and expelled through a shuddering breath. You were blinded by the soft bedding, burying your moans into the sheets, but you could conjure up the holiest image of Grant spreading your asscheeks open and exploring you with eager licks.

“You’re so good at this,“ you sighed, curling your toes into your socks.

“You bring out the best in me, you know…” Grant muttered, squeezing your ass cheeks as a sign of affection when you looked over your shoulder and smiled at him. His mouth was much too busy to verbalize his feelings.

You wondered if Grant was aware of how obscene he had sounded—these wet, slurpy sounds that his mouth made while tasting your insides. His hot breath was beckoning, pushing your hips out by inclination for Grant to give you more. More, more, more. It seemed like he listened to your body because you stiffened immediately, barely suppressing a surprised gasp, when his slicked finger entered you.

You felt like you were in a free fall. Finally. This was exactly what you needed. Your mind went utterly blank, unable to comprehend the single digit curling inside of you. It was thought-annihilating, the way Grant had curled his fingers inside of you—two now, after deciding for himself that you had been clamoring for a bigger fill, that you needed to feel a stretch.

“Please, Grant—that’s enough, please. Need you,” you whimpered, self-conscious at the sound of his wet fingers slipping in and out of you. He liked playing with your body, screwing his fingers deep inside of you, only to yank them out because it made you yelp.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he brought the rest of your body onto the bed, bringing immediate relief to your legs. “One more.”

It made your tight hole beckon for more with a pucker.

With such control, forcefulness, and precision, your mouth fell open in a silent moan and your eyes went wide at the push of Grant’s third finger. You could barely keep your hips still, even with Grant’s efforts to hold you down with a palm on your lower back. It was all too much, your whole world seemed to have narrowed down to your sensitive hole; the sound of his hard fingers pumping in and out of you; the slick sounds obscene and alerting in your ear; the sweet stretch that made the discomfort all the worthwhile—because Grant was just as anguished as you were. You could hear him stroking his slicked cock, the anticipation of the inevitable building as you felt yourself loosened on account of his efforts.

You knew you were well-primed because your body still craved more.

“No more… need you,” you bit out, breathing unsteadily when Grant pulled his fingers out and flipped you onto your back. Your eyes naturally fell to Grant’s cock, and it looked as mouthwatering as it did a few moments ago. Your hole clenched at the likely chance that you’d be feeling the ramifications of taking such a well-endowed man well into the next day, and the day after that. “Please,” you begged once more, reaching low to prevail him with lazy to his erection.

“Other than getting over that nasty cold, I’ve never seen you so desperate for something,” Grant was kneeling on the bed, adjusting your position so your legs were wrapped around his hips, his cock teasing your entrance with careful ruts. You felt the head press ever so gently when he leaned forward and captured your lips for a soft kiss. “I find it really, really, really charming.”

“Mm…” Your fingers, tentative and slow, cupped the edge of Grant’s jaw. This was just the beginning, you realized. A new chapter for you and Grant where the idea of dropping hints of attraction was no longer needed because everything came unraveling, faster than you had anticipated, but nonetheless, it was exciting.

Grant put a free hand on the back of your neck, threading his fingers through your hair, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, securing his place on top of you. When Grant broke the kiss to look into your eyes, it made all the difference between lust and love as he slowly pressed his cock into your hole, unlatching some kind of internal safety mechanism within you until it had clasped over the plump head after getting cold feet.

“Slowly,” you groaned, sweating bullets beneath the shower of his kisses. You built up a strong resistance to Grant’s hips, reluctant, and to put it quite plainly, frightened to take him in stride. But it was Grant’s silent promise to take care of you that took the edge off your apprehension bit-by-bit.

Grant followed a pattern. He pushed deeper, paused, then found a place on your body to distract you from the discomforting stretch, reeled back a bit, then thrusted deeper than before, gradually opening you up. Adding on the pleasing strokes to your hard cock, you felt your muscles relax, the sweat bullets cooling your body.

“More…” you mumbled on his lips, and at times you regretted asking for it, because Grant made your stomach turn. His cock was so deep inside of you, too deep when the stretch nearly became unbearable, yet your cock pulsed and your hole clenched for the exact opposite.

You noticed he liked talking you through it especially, whispering bone-chilling compliments like, “You’re taking my cock so well,” “Look at you, you’re so beautiful…” and your favorite, “You’re driving me crazy. Do you have any idea how hard I’m restraining myself?”

Grant was listening to your body. He knew what it meant when you were clenching so tight around him, panting for him with that wide-eyed look of yours, supplying his broad back with unrelenting scratches. It meant that you weren’t full enough—it meant that you covertly indulged in the stretch he was providing you with.

It was the best and worst feeling in the world, because you knew with suddenly clarity that you wouldn’t be able to live without this. You would crave this feeling always, especially when Grant fully breached your hole with a thrust that filled you to the brim.

You were full. So fucking full.

“Oh, God—“ The cock in you was thick and throbbing, easily brushing your prostate without so much of a motion. You nearly passed out from how intense the sensation was, having your inner walls be massaged from within as Grant finally started moving.

“You took all of my cock, fuck—I knew you could. I know you so well,” Grant grunted against your mouth, pistoning in and out of you with hard thrusts. Your arms had dropped to Grant’s sides, fingers digging into Grant’s toned buttocks, trying to pull him deeper inside of you.

Instead, he reeled himself back.

Your legs dangled in the air as Grant pushed your knees to your chest, leveraging the back of your thighs hard to properly pile-drive his cock into your hole. Your feet sweltered in the confines of your socks, but you didn’t mind because you were getting accustomed to the humidity in the air.

Grant didn’t hesitate anymore. There was wild fury in his face, the imposing strength and passion managing to be its only rival as they equally sought for one purpose and one purpose only, which was to fuck you into oblivion. Grant looked dangerous, delirious, and you feared him as much as you wanted him. In your folded position, you spread your buttocks apart for Grant to see how well he was fucking you. How deep he was stroking your insides with his thick cock, making you gape when he completely pulled out, then making your body shiver—when he screwed himself in with one hard thrust, overfilling your guts.

“You put a smell on me, didn’t you?” His voice sounded spiteful, but what he does to you was pure love. He growled into one of your calves between pants, smooching and grazing his teeth at the toned muscle.

The bed creaked with every thrust of his, loud and heavy enough that you wouldn’t be surprised that the corridors of his mansion were echoing from it.

“F-fuck—if only. You would’ve d-done this sooner,” Tiny tremors and tingles exploded as Grant pummeled deep into your body and brushed over your prostate. You were stroking yourself to the sound of his ravenous moans, to the sound of his heavy balls slapping over your taint, to the sound of his sweaty thighs coming into contact with yours, warning you of a sensation of pin-needles sticking into the area by virtue of the thunderous claps.

Grant couldn’t have looked more beautiful than this. The gel in his hair loosened, letting delicate strands of brown locks to fall over his forehead. Every so often, he would push his fringe back with a careless swoop, and you whimpered at how effortlessly handsome he was at everything.

It lit you up inside, your body bursting with raw energy with the brutal impaling that Grant was feeding you. Your cock throbbed in your fist, and your hole squeezed at the unveiling of untamed passion. Grant must have seen the desire written on your face, because he was triumphant in the smile he had given you, leaning down to wake you from your state of stupor by means of a sloppy kiss.

“G-Grant, I-I’m so, I can’t—“ Grant took over your mind and body. He was everywhere, inside and around you. It was like you existed only for him, and his massive cock. His tongue pushed your lips apart and began cradling the flesh that had held your garbled moans from being remotely coherent.

“I can’t hear you,” Then, he fucked you like he wanted to gut you. Grant reached deep, hammering into your prostate every time his hips collided against yours. “Tell me, what do you want? I’ll give it to you. You know I will.”

Your eyes rolled until Grant could only see the whites of them. Your toes curled into your cotton of your socks at the contrasting affection in his voice. Your hands sprawled and crumpled a spot in the bed sheets, pulling and tugging hard enough for one corner of the satin bedding to untuck.

“Come. I need to come—“ you gasped out, struggling to breathe. Your world had shrunk to one sensation, the spot inside of you that had been gifted the ruthless beating of Grant’s cock. It was like he was chastising you for causing such feelings to stir inside of him. If that was the case, you needed to memorize the recipe, and quickly, because you were desperate to reduce the chances of ever being stripped of this sensation to a selfish zero.

“I’ll help you come,” he seized your body once again, hooked your legs over his shoulders, and pushed his total body weight on top of you. He blatantly disregarded the fact that your limbs had never been stretched this far before, but it was all worthwhile when Grant satisfied your longing by wrapping his warm hand over your cock and pumped. “I’ll make you come.”

“S-shit, Grant!” Each thrust harder than the last, his cockhead repeatedly hitting that golden spot, and your cock ached with desire in the lovely pulling of Grant’s hand. Your entire body seized, writhing as the familiar feeling in your stomach kept building and building without the intention to ever stop. It embarrassingly only took a few more strokes before you would spill thick all over his fist. All over your body, cumshots joining your sweat in layering your moist skin, when Grant kept stroking with the intent to empty your balls until they had tightened into your body.

Only then did Grant slow his thrusts and pull himself out. Did he change his mind about coming inside of you. Over your body? Face? You couldn’t tell what he was planning as you just began recovering from the daze your orgasm had put you into.

“You’re going to like this,” Grant grunted, pecking you on the lips before reaching down to angle himself back at your entrance.

Your gaze was casted with a mixture of utter bliss and wonder, chuckling. “What are you—fuck…“

Your hole felt warm and wet all over again when Grant pushed himself back inside of you with ease. Furthermore, it was a peculiar feeling, like there was an extra weight to his cock, the sound of the sticky substance—

You gasped, suddenly alert and clenching as you felt something viscous leak out of you.

Grant was fucking you with your own cum.

You couldn’t have been more turned on. Grant rolled his hips just right, slow and firm, coating your raw hole over and over with your seed, building back his stamina in the process. His cock pulsated in you. It was apparent that it was feeding into Grant’s satisfaction considering his gaze had been fixated on the translucent sheen of your cum passing back and forth on the girth of his cock and your internal walls.

“So beautiful…” Grant moaned out, clearly overwhelmed with the state of his arousal.

With every thrust, you swallowed him whole, the long glide of his thick, cum-covered shaft, the kiss to your prostate; you gyrated your hips to prolong his orgasm and allow him to recover his strength as Grant freed his hands from your body and tucked them behind his head, giving you free rein on his cock.

You rolled your hips, using your core to swing your ass forward and back on his throbbing cock, drawing out deep and guttural moans from the connection.

“Darling, (M/N), fuck—“ Hissing, he suddenly seized your waist and gripped hard, impaling you onto his cock with a rough pull, and you watched his stomach tighten, wrapping your legs back around his waist in preparation of his orgasm.

You watched in awe as you lost yourself in Grant’s fill. He came hard, gritting his teeth and digging his fingers into your thighs. It was a marvelous ache, both at your flesh and your hole, and you could feel his cock pumping multiple heavy loads deep inside of you and flooding your guts as reparation for your pain.

Even though Grant’s legs gave out, making him topple over your sweaty body, the strain in his thighs didn’t falter the desperate need to sow your insides with his warm seed. It was as if he was marking his territory, moving his hips slow and relaxed because he knew you were bound to him the moment he kissed you. Milking his cock inside of you was just a simple reminder, and you hugged his hard, spilling cock with gratitude.

His lips were slow and gentle, a contradictory to the merciless invasion of your guts. Nonetheless, you rocked on his shaft, blissfully spreading his love from deep within, and savored his shuddering breath.

“You’re heavy,” you groaned out, rubbing your hands from his shoulders to his sweaty back. Despite your complaint, you didn’t make much of an effort—if any at all—to push him away. It was peaceful like this, feeling his heart beat come to a somewhat normal pace while you two were stickily intertwined at the hip. “Some kind of confession…”

The sound of Grant’s muffled laughter into your neck made you smile. It was light and feathery, like the way you had always felt when you were with him.

“First kiss and sex, all on the same night. Who’s doing it like us?”

“No one. Absolutely no one.”

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

Hello!!! I have a request if that’s okay with you. 💕

Would you maybe write a Spencer x quiet!reader? Where she doesn’t have the courage to talk to him because she’s too shy?

I don’t really have a plot in mind so that’s up to you!! I’m sorry I couldn’t come up with any ideas but hopefully it lets you write whatever you want. Thank you for taking the time to read this. And I read your other stories, you’re so underrated and amazing I love your wording when you write. 🥹🫶🏻🫶🏻

Hi Mary!! Thank you so much for your kind words c:

I did my best c: I hope you like it!

Round Table (Spencer Reid x shy!gn!reader)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x shy!gn!reader (if not gn please let me know, but I'm fairly certain it is!)

Word Count: 1538

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, but besides that none?

A/N: this was so fun c: i am really enjoying challenging myself with your guys' requests. hope you enjoy!!

------

You were an incredibly anxious person, which, honestly, was okay. You tried not to let your anxiety hinder your life too much, but like any other human being, sometimes it got in the way. It was frustrating, sure, knowing that a situation would be so much easier if you weren’t so anxious about it, but you reminded yourself often that you weren’t perfect, and neither was anyone else. 

Some people were afraid of heights, of the ocean, of needles. Some people had trouble going out into crowds or grew overstimulated in public places. 

You? You were painfully shy. There was always an adjustment period to being around new people.

Baristas, the bus driver, pharmacy techs, cashiers at the grocery store - you did just fine. But those were one-time interactions, brief discussions that you could compartmentalize. 

They came with a script to follow, with cue cards already queued up in your head as they occurred. You could put on an emotional mask for five minutes while the nurse at the clinic gave you a flu shot. You could smile and speak in your special voice labeled Getting Coffee, an octave higher than you usually spoke, in order to acquire your much-needed beverage. There was a clear goal in mind with each of these dialogues. Sure, you didn’t present as the most confident person in the world, but you always made it through conversations like these without stumbling over your words or being too terribly awkward.  

You didn’t succeed as much with deeper connections, with ones that took time to cultivate. You were a guarded person to begin with, with only a handful of people you felt truly close to. Vulnerability had always been difficult for you, but you supposed you were in the majority on that front. It took a while to become comfortable around coworkers, extended family, hell, even your therapist. You had to have time to adjust, to settle in. 

A lot of people in your life thought you were just socially awkward or even an agoraphobe, but you didn’t mind being around people. It was the intimacy, the connection, the having to give away little pieces of yourself, that made you anxious. It kept you from participating in conversations most of the time, usually only speaking unless spoken to. 

You liked your job as a linguistics and handwriting analyst in the FBI for that very reason. You didn’t have to say much  to people unless it was related to a case. With a clear goal in mind, a threat to neutralize, you could turn on that mechanical part of your brain that spouted off facts, information, theories. You didn’t have to tell anyone about your weekend, about your hopes and dreams or your favorite foods. 

You were consulting on a case for the Behavioral Analysis Unit - a serial killer who stalked his victims months before their murders, sending handwritten letters and using poetry to taunt them. Your supervisor had asked you to collaborate with the BAU, sending you to the sixth floor on your own. 

For the last two days, you’d been working closely with Dr. Spencer Reid - Spencer, he insisted you call him. Just a couple of years older than you, but still very young for his role in the FBI. He was friendly,  and very smart, and he rambled on about all kinds of things - 

Everything, actually. The Chinese food you’d had for lunch on the first day? He explained the origin of fortune cookies. Did you know their first appearance in the US was in San Francisco in the late 1800s? 

Pointing out a Dickinson line in one of the UnSub’s letters? Did you know only ten of Emily Dickinson’s poems were actually published when she was alive and the rest were posthumous? 

You often just nodded along and smiled, occasionally throwing in an oh, that’s very interesting to appear as an active listener. And you were an active listener. You did genuinely think he was interesting, and you found his info dumps to be incredibly endearing. But your contributions to the conversation were abysmal in comparison.

Beyond discussing patterns in the UnSub’s letters and what it might mean for each victim, you had no other fascinating information to share. You didn’t do well with small talk, and Spencer didn’t ask you any overtly personal questions. 

It wasn’t until close to the end of the second day spent in the conference room of the BAU’s office that Spencer asked you a direct question about yourself. 

There were three evidence boards set up, all full of scanned copies of the letters, each one pinned up meticulously by you and Spencer the day before. The large round table in the room had letters stacked out all around it, each one bagged in protective plastic. 

Spencer was standing in front of the evidence boards with his arms crossed over his chest, studying the photocopies with his head inclined to the side. 

He broke the silence you had been slowly settling into the past two days. “Your supervisor said you had a specialization in poetry?” 

You nodded, stepping over to the table and carefully lifting one of the letters up. You liked how he spoke as if you two were in the middle of a conversation, when in fact, it had been totally silent for the past half an hour, save for the soft puttering of the air conditioning vent.

“Studied a lot in undergrad,” you squeaked out, clearing your throat as you held the letter up the fluorescent light above you to examine the stationary. 

“What university did you attend?” Spencer asked, and you turned your head to find him inclining his head to the side. He actually wanted to know? 

“I went to Bennington College to study poetry,” you said softly, suddenly finding it difficult to focus on the letter in your hand. “But I went to graduate school at Georgetown. Master’s in Linguistics.” 

“Really? That’s fascinating,” Spencer commented, which caught you by surprise, especially because he didn’t sound the least bit sarcastic. “That combination of degrees is exceedingly rare. Generally people who major in poetry often either go on to complete as far up as a doctorate in the subject or  they stop at a Bachelor’s degree. The latter statistically don’t end up working in a field related to poetry, either, so their degree is basically useless.” 

You weren’t sure if you were supposed to be offended by that, so instead you just nodded your head politely. “Okay,” you murmured, biting your lip. 

“Can I ask you another question?” Spencer asked, and set the letter in your hand down on the table. You smoothed your hands over the fabric of your shirt and nodded. “Do I… do I make you uncomfortable?” 

You shook your head. “No,” you said assuredly, and then, a little more hesitantly, “…why would you ask me that?” 

Spencer turned to face you. “You’re just very quiet unless we’re discussing the case. Which is fine, of course, but I just… I don’t know. I thought maybe you were annoyed by me or I said something to offend you.” 

You felt guilt spread over you and your cheeks turned pink. The last thing you’d wanted was to make anyone feel bad who didn’t deserve it. And the very kind, helpful, and adorable Dr. Spencer Reid was the furthest from deserving to feel bad. 

 “I just don’t talk a lot,” you tried to explain. Your hand rubbed the spot where the top of your chest met the skin of your neck, an anxious habit you’d had for years. “I mean, I do with people I know, and that’s not to say I dominate the conversation by any means, but I just…” you realized you were rambling. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” you added, your voice just above a whisper. 

“Thank you,” Spencer’s lips flickered into a straight-lined smile, one you had seen several times over the past few days, often when unintentional eye contact was made across the table. “For clarifying, I mean, that I didn’t offend you.” He cleared his throat, and leaned against the round table, standing just a few feet from you. Still a very professional and comfortable distance, but closer than he had been before. “So, does that mean that if we got to know each other, you’d talk more?” The corners of his lips spread out and his smile grew. 

You tore your eyes away from his to look at the letter in your hand, the protective plastic around it crinkling between your fingers. You weren’t actually looking at the letter, though. You’d just needed somewhere - anywhere - else to look. “That’s generally how it goes,” you murmured, biting your lip. 

“So, if I were to, for example, ask you to meet me for dinner sometime, could the getting to know each other happen there?” 

Your eyes fluttered over to Spencer’s and you saw him smiling. You could tell by how he looked at you, with his head inclined just slightly to the side, that he was being fully serious. You nodded, unable to control the small smile on your face. 

Spencer grinned, and you could tell he couldn’t resist when he spoke again. “So, is that a yes?” 

[doctorbunny]

MILGRAM Hallucination Booklet Translation pt.1 (Yamanaka and DECO*27 Interview)

Context: This interview was from a booklet handed out at the MILGRAM Hallucination live show on the 21st January 2024 (if you want a copy you can buy it here) This translation was made possible by the generosity of @maxpawb sharing images of his booklet with me This translation is mostly my own, but @maristelina helped me with some sections. Now without further ado:

Q.01 Introduce Yourself. I'm Takuya Yamanaka. I'm the creator/planner/screenwriter for MILGRAM. I'm DECO*27. I work as the music producer for MILGRAM. I like Hatsune Miku.

Q.02 What reactions from the guards have been the most surprising so far? Yamanaka: There are a lot of guards that were born overseas, aren't there? Even though it's created with rather Japanese sensibilities, overseas audiences didn't seem to mind at all. Though the countries and sensibilities are different than what I anticipated, votes have become more multifaceted, it's very interesting, isn't it? DECO: To forgive or not forgive the prisoners what do you do, whether it goes as you expected or the result turns out to be quite the opposite, its fascinating. Maybe your nationality affects the kind of criteria you use to make judgements? I've been thinking about something like that.

Q.03 Is there anything you didn't imagine would happen at the start of the trial? Yamanaka: I didn't write it with a large overseas audience in mind, because from the start I wasn't worrying about popularity at all, I simply didn't think I'd be watching over so many guards. Milgram was developed as a more underground project, but it's popularity is a good surprise, isn't it. DECO: There were more people who got into MILGRAM without already caring about my music than I imagined, it was surprising. I feel like MILGRAM has spread further beyond than what I thought it would. I'm very grateful!

Q.04 So far, what's made you the happiest? Yamanaka: Everything. As a creator it brings me great joy to see a work that existed in my mind, take shape and be enjoyed by so many people. Other than that, because I also love the characters I've birthed, seeing all the guards talking about them and sharing their thoughts, both positive and negative, has to be the best feeling. DECO: It makes me happy to see lots of people analysing the meanings I put in my songs! The theories get pretty close to the truth too, I think... the power of all the guards is really cool.

Q.05 So far, what has been the most challenging? Yamanaka: Because I have to change the script in accordance with the audience's decisions, I can't create the entire story in advance. Furthermore, as of the second trial, there aren't only individual character storylines, the prisoner's verdicts begin to emerge and they influence each other. That is to say, I can't start writing until after everyone's results are out. Willingly subjecting myself to doing something this unreasonable, is what I feel is difficult for me. But because DECO*27 is also going through the same hell, we're holding on to some semblance of sanity. DECO: The story changes in accordance to all the guards' choices, and the music has to be written to match. I think this is harder for Yamanaka-P, who writes the script, than it is for me... But though its tough, I feel its really worthwhile, It makes me really happy to be able to communicate with everyone through my songs!

Q.06 Do you have any regrets like "I wish I had done it differently back then!"? Yamanaka: I've thought it over quite carefully, but there's nothing in particular. I think everyone involved in the project is giving it their all and its a really passionate environment. DECO: Nope! I've been able to put all the things I've thought of into my songs.

Q.07 Which prisoners are the easiest to write dialogue/music for? Yamanaka: If I had to pick one, it'd be Fuuta. He's the type of person that's pretty easy to write because his brain never shuts up. Other than him, Yuno and Shidou are relatively academic kids in theory, so they're easy to write because they're very clear when it comes to what they want to convey. [TL note just because its funny, the idiom Yamanaka uses is lit. "There is barking in the inside [of Fuuta's] head] DECO: It went smoothly for all of them!

Q.08 Which prisoners are the most fun to write dialogue/music for? Yamanaka: Muu's lines were the very fun to write~. I'm fascinated by her approach to life and can't help but envy how fun it must be to behave like that. Yuno and Amane are my runners up. I enjoy writing the kinds of characters who plainly state their ideas and speak eloquently. DECO: Mahiru! From the start writing about the relationships between men and women has been what you might call my forte, its enjoyable to make. I feel like this is also why I find Yuno easy to write for.

Q.09 Which prisoners are the hardest to write dialogue/music for? Yamanaka: Overwhelmingly, Haruka's dialogue takes me the longest to write. I have to use the parts of my brain that I wouldn't normally use to figure out how to not just directly convey what he wants to say. DECO: None of them!

Q.10 What's your favourite combination of characters? Yamanaka: Amane and Shidou. They're on completely different wavelengths about everything, and the best part is that there's no getting around it. My second pick might go to Yuno and Muu. They don't get along at all so their fights are never just superficial squabbling. DECO: I always like the interactions between Es and the prisoners. I'm liking how over the course of the voice drama interrogations, Es seems to be gradually coming to understand the prisoner's humanity. Especially Es + Mahiru!

Q.11 Do you want to be friends with any of the prisoners? Yamanaka: Shidou and Kazui. I like the idea of being friends with professional people. I think that people who choose to go into something specialized, its clear they have a kind of resolve and that's charming, isn't it? DECO: Yuno! I feel like she'd be easy to talk to. She seems like she's used to friends who maintain a good distance from each other. [note: while 'good' here can mean a fair amount of distance, in Japanese relationships the concept of boundaries is also built into the idea of distance, so in English you might talk about someone who is a close friend but still has good boundaries, but in Japanese this is someone who has the 'right amount'/ちょうどいい of distance from you, so this could mean Yuno doesn't have any close friends or that Yuno is just a good friend because she isn't going to turn up to your house unexpectedly and eat all the food in your fridge]

Q.12 Do you want to date any of the prisoners? Yamanaka: I love all of my characters a lot, but, well... how should I say it... I don't think I would date any of them. [TL note: I had to shift the wording to be more natural in English but the Japanese Q is more like 'which prisoner would you want to be your boy/girlfriend?' curse english for not having an exact equivalent to koibito, so Yamanaka's answer is more like 'I think would break up with all of them' its a nominal difference but my friend said to mention it bc its funny] DECO: I'm sorry.

Q.13 What's your favourite line/phrase? Yamanaka:

[Scene from Muu's first voice drama Crying B, TL taken from MILGRAMMER]

Es: Judging from your facial features, are you what they call “half-Japanese”? [lit. haafu/Half] Muu: Yeah… I’m biracial. [lit. daburu/Double]

It would have to be that wouldn't it? I got goosebumps when I wrote it it. DECO:

"It's not my fault"

I think that single phrase was able to represent Muu's character really well, if I do say so myself.

Q.14 Are there any prisoners that you think its good they're in MILGRAM? Yamanaka: All of them. Without these 10 people, this Milgram would be a complete failure. DECO: Without these 10 people, MILGRAM wouldn't exist!

Q.15 Is there anything the guards aren't aware of yet? Yamanaka: Of course, there may be some minor details, but I don't think there are any major points missing. The mysteries have already disseminated, I feel the full picture will be clearly revealed if the theories and wild speculations, which have been shared around the world, come together. As expected. DECO: There are! I hope you look forward to the gimmicks I wanted to put in my songs that will come out in the third trial!

Q.16 Is there anything you haven't been able to do up to now, but you want to try doing after this? Yamanaka: I want to do a stageplay. Every performance would be a different story set in Milgram. If anyone reading this is involved with stage productions, please contact me. [I can't find it now but I swear a while ago Yamanaka tweeted something similar like "I'm interested in doing stage adaptations of Caligula Effect or MILGRAM, if anyone is involved with stage production please contact me" I hope he does it, a MILGRAM stage play would be awesome] DECO: Fortunately, I'm already doing everything I want to do! Writing the trial 3 songs couldn't be more fun.

Q.17 Represent "MILGRAM" in one word. Yamanaka: 『人』 "People" DECO: 『噓』 "Lies" [This one is both simple and interesting so as a preview I'll share how akka and DMYM answered] akka: 『幻』 "Illusions" DMYM: 『信』 "Faith"

Q.18 Give a brief comment about the future of "MILGRAM". Yamanaka: There have already been plot developments that I personally wish I didn't have to write. The guards have all chosen a very intense path. It's frightening. I've also been ready to obey these choices since the start of MILGRAM, so I think we all should enjoy this story that can only be told once together. DECO: I've already started writing the prisoner's songs. It's hell. Please prepare yourselves. Q.19 A message for the guards. Yamanaka: Thank you for always looking after the prisoners. Milgram is a work that involves the participation of everyone, including yourself. The thoughts you had, the actions you took, the joy, and resentment you felt towards this prison, all this became a part of Milgram too. I would like you all to please live healthily in your realities alongside Milgram. DECO: Thank you for your hard work as guards. Although MILGRAM is full of troublemakers, we would be grateful if you could continue to watch over us for a long time to come. We will do our best to meet your expectations.

[A link to part 2 will be posted here when its ready]

(Japanese transcript under the cut)

Q.01 自己紹介を。 山中拓也です。 ミルグラムでは企画・原作・脚本をしています。 DECO*27です。 MILGRAMのサウンドプロデューサーを務めています。 初音ミクが好きです。

Q.02 これまでの看守たちからの反応で驚いたことは？ Yamanaka: 海外にもたくさんの看守が生まれるていったことですね。とっても日本的な感性で創っているので、海外ウケとかきにしていませんでした。やはり国が違うと感性も違うものだと思うので、より多面的な投票がされて、とても面白いですね。 DECO: 囚人が赦すor 赦さないのどっちになるか、と自分で予想していたりもしたのですが、結構それが逆の結果になっていることがあって興味深ったです。もしかして国民性で判断基準が違ってくるのかな？とか考えたりしました。

Q.03 審判開始時点では思い描いていなかったことはあるか？ Yamanaka: 海外ウケ気にしたことないと書きましたが、そもそもウケ自体あまり気にしていなかったので、シンプルにこんなにたくさんの看守の方に見守っていただけるコンテンツになるとは思っていませんでした。もっと、アンダーグラウンドで展開するつもりだったんですが、嬉しい悲鳴ですね。 DECO: 想像以上にDECO*27を知らない方にもMILGRAMを観てもらえたことに驚きました。自分の思っていた以上にMILGRAMが広がったなと感じています。ありがとうございます！

Q.04 これまでで一番嬉しかったことは？ Yamanaka: 全部です。自分の脳内にしかなかった作品が、形になり、たくさんの人に楽しんでもらえること自体がクリエイターとしては大きな喜ぶです。あとはやはり僕は自分が産んだ登場人物のことが大好きなので、プラスでもマイナスでも看守の皆様が彼らについて語って、想いをぶつけてくれいることが最高に嬉しいです。 DECO: たくさんの方に自分が音楽に込めた意味考察してもらえた嬉しいです！かなり正解に近い考察もあって、看守の皆さんのパワーすごいな…と思っています。

Q.05 これまでで一番大変だったことは？ Yamanaka: ユーザーの選択によって、シナリオを変更をするので、あらかじめ制作することができないということです。しかも二審からは個人のストーリーラインだけでなく、他の囚人の結果による影響も出てくる。ということは全員の結果出てからじゃないと制作できないということです。そんな無茶を勝手に自分でやりはじめて、勝手に自分で大変な思いをしています。同じ地獄をDECO27も味わっているので、なんとか正気を保っています。 DECO: 看守の皆さんの選択に応じてストーリー変化し、それに合うように音楽を書くことです。これは僕よりもシナリオを書く山中Pのほうが大変だろうな…と思いますが…大変ではありますがとてもやりがいをかんじていますし、曲を通じて皆さんとコミュニケーションが取れていることが嬉しいです！

Q.06　「今思えばやっておけばよかった！」のような後悔はあるか？ Yamanaka: よくよく考えてみたんですが、特に無いです。制作に関わる全員��ベストを尽くしてくれているとてもアツい現場だと思います。 DECO: ないです！思いついたことはすべて楽曲で出力できています。

Q.07 シナリオや音楽の制作がスムーズな囚人は？ Yamanaka: 一人あげるとすればフータでしょうか。頭の中でわんわん言ってるので、かなり書きやすいタイプです。あとはユノや、シドウあたりの比較的理論的で偏差値高めな子たちは何が伝えたいかが明確なので書きやすいです。 DECO: みんなすんなりでした！

Q.08 シナリオや音楽の制作が一番楽しい囚人は？ Yamanaka: セリフを書いていて一番楽しいのはムウですかねぇ~。こんなふうにふるまえたち人生楽しいだろうという憧れすあります。次点でユノやアマネでしょうか。思想がはっきりしてて、弁の立つタイプは書くのが楽しいです。 DECO: マヒルです！自分が元々男女間の関係性を描くのが得意ということもあって、楽しく制作しています。そういった意味ではユノも書きやすいなと感じます。

Q.09 シナリオや音楽の制作に苦労する囚人は？ Yamanaka: 圧倒的にセリフを書くのに時間がかかるのはハルカです。彼が伝えたいことを、伝わらないようにする調整に普段は使わない脳を使います。 DECO: いないです！

Q.10 お気に入りの組み合わせはあるか？ Yamanaka: アマネとシドウ。すべての要素が噛み合わなさすぎて、どうしようもないところが良いです。次点でユノとムウかもです。表面的なケンカにならないだけでかなり気が合わないので。 DECO: エス対囚人の絡みは須く好きです。ボイスドラマの尋問によって段々とエスが囚人の人間性を掴んでいく様が気に入っています。特にエス＋マヒル！

Q.11 囚人を友達にするなら誰か？ Yamanaka: シドウとカズイ。友達にいてほしい職業の人たちです。なにかのスペシャリストを選択する人たちというのは、何かしらの覚悟が決まっている人だと思うのでそれだけで魅力的ですね。 DECO: ユノです！話していて気楽そうだなと感じます。お互い良い距離感を保てる友達になれそう。

Q.12 囚人を恋人にするなら誰か？ Yamanaka: 僕は登場人物のことを全員最高に愛してますが、まぁ、なんというか、全員やめとこうと思います。 DECO: ごめんなさい。

Q.13 お気に入りのセルフやフレーズは？ Yamanaka: 「その顔立ち、ハーフというやつか？」「うん...…ダブル」ですね。書いてて鳥肌でした。 DECO: 「悪くないもん」 1フレーズでムウのキャラクターを上手に表現できたなと我ながら思っています。

Q.14 ミルグラムにいてくれてよかった、と思う囚人は？ Yamanaka: 全員です。この10人でなければ、このミルグラムになっていないので。 DECO: MILGRAMはこの10人がいなければ成立しません！

Q.15 看守たちにまだ感づかれていないことはあるか？ Yamanaka: もちろん、些末な部分はあるかと思いますが、大きいところだとないんじゃないですかねぇ。既に問題はバラまいたし、世界中に発信された考察や妄想を組み合わせたらきっちり全貌が明らかになる気がします。さすがです。 DECO: あります！第三審で僕が楽曲を通じてやりたかったギミックが出てくるので楽しみにしていてください！

Q.16 今できていないが、今後やってみたいことはあるか？ Yamanaka: 舞��がやりたいです。毎公演、コンセプトの異なるミルグラムで行われる舞台。舞台制作に関わる方が、読んでおられましたら是非山中まで。 DECO: 有り難いことに、やりたいことは全部やれています！第三審の曲を書くのが楽しくてしょうがないです。

Q.17 「ミルグラム」を一文字で表せ。 Yamanaka: 『人』 DECO: 『噓』

Q.18 今後の「ミルグラム」について一言。 Yamanaka: 既に僕が個人的には書かないでいたかった展開が確定しています。看守の皆さんなかなか強烈な道筋を選びました。恐ろしい。自分もその選択に従う覚悟をしてミルグラムをスタートしているので、一度きりの物語を皆さんと一緒に楽しもうと思います。 DECO: 既に楽曲を書き始めている囚人もいます。地獄です。覚悟しててください。

Q.19 看守たちへメッセージを。 Yamanaka: いつも囚人たちのことを世話してくださってありがとうございます。ミルグラムとは、参加する皆さん自身を含めてミルグラムという作品です。この監獄に対して感じた思い、起こした行動、喜び、 憤り 、それらすべてが作品の一部になります。是非ミルグラムと共にある皆さんの現実を健やかに生きてくださいませ。 DECO: いつも看守としてのお勤めご苦労さまです。曲者ばかりのMILGRAMですが、これからも末永く見守っていただけると幸いです。期待に応えられるよう、尽力してまいります。

[sam-keeper]

what I have to say about Joy To The World is basically what I have to say about Moffat's script from earlier this year: Boom

which you can still read for free on my Patreon :)

Moffat is obsessed with digital copies of people, fragments of people, things pretending to be people who are already dead, and so on. He loves it. And I love that he loves it! God imagine being a kid at the playground after Silence in the Library, chasing after your friends repeating "Hey! Who turned out the lights?" There's a whole bunch of dialogue interactions playing in this sort of uncanny, ghostly space: "Are you my mummy?" in The Empty Child, the whole "sorry sir, no, the Angel got me sir, I died terrified and alone and in pain :)" conversation in Time of Angels, and now he's added "Thoughts and prayers" and "Kiss kiss" into the mix. Objects or monsters, speaking as people, in particular mimicking people's final words or final thoughts, an uncanny repetition. And it goes beyond horror. I think he must have arrived at some of these motifs through the Faction Paradox City of the Saved, which is strikingly similar to both the false heaven Missy builds and to the mass temporal record made in Twice Upon a Time. And, yes, there's the titular library. We might even invert these concepts as well with the fates of Danny Pink and Bill, both turned into Cybermen, both clinging to humanity within their terrifying transformation. Pearl Mackie in particular brilliantly gets to act out Bill's final story through her own perception filter, her mind fighting like hell to still conceive of herself as human despite her cyberization. It's like he's obsessed with stripping away most of a person, and then asking... what of a person remains? ... And here in this episode, it's this dad's love for his daughter and desire to protect her. Cue the whole audience going "Awwwww". It's very sweet, isn't it? Almost treacly. People always make Davies out to be the sappy emotional one and Moffat the ironic quippy distanced writer but it's kind of the opposite. Davies writes in this really satirical mode a lot of the time, or just plain weird mode, and has this deep cynicism about human beings and about the Doctor. Moffat can't commit to his own cruelties. It's like Sarah says in her video, he wants to have his tragic cake and eat a happy ending too. He can't let his companions stay dead! And he seems to come back continuously to love as this incredibly powerful force. It's powerful enough here that it gives the Doctor a way in to persuade the digital ghost of a man he's never met to go to war with the entire Villengard algorithm for his daughter.

[draw-ren-draw]

Avantris Comic Scripts #2

Often when I get ideas for comics, I break my panels into scripts first. These are less prose-y than fics but still contain dialogue and basic interactions. You seem to have enjoyed my first one, so have a few more, this one featuring my initial thoughts on "Gorebek"

Confrontation with 'the Duke' (spoilers up to ep: 56!) [A script I wrote to explore my personal headcanon about Torbek's situation; I think this would be a delightful twist that suits what Nikki and Andy might be plotting for us. Please be sure you are caught up to episode 56 to avoid any spoilers! These ideas are not confirmed just my personal favorite take~] * * * * [After another grueling battle, 'The Duke' has made himself known by taking control of Torbek's body once again. Dripping with the blood of his latest conquest, the party stands at odds with the most sane and yet somehow scariest version of their friend yet. This time, the Witchlighted to hell and back bugbear has no interest in further bloodshed and seems more inclined to take his leave. Weapons drawn, Carnivale Lecroux debate whether to fight or allow this unexpected threat to flee, knowing they could risk losing Torbek too.]

Kremy: "You're outnumbered so KINDLY get the hell out of Torbek already!" Gideon: "Ya can't just show up after somebody's been experimented on and claim that bodies your own!" "Not my own?" The Duke pauses, considering something while facing away. "Let me get this straight. Your friend. Who speaks in grunts and the third person. Can barely write his name. And you think he's the original personality?"

A hush falls over the crowd Gricko: "… In hindsight…" Frost: "…it does make a disturbing amount of sense.."

'The Duke' smirks and misty steps closer to Kremy, taunting the lizardfolk. 'The Duke': "You never could remember me, could you?" Kremy: "Now that's not true, the herri--" 'The Duke': "You just believed whatever it was I told you, it was easy enough to picture." The Alligator squints, fae magic clouding his mind. Something about what this not-Torbek is saying does make an insidious amount of sense. He grits his teeth, unable to find the lie. Kremy: "… Think I'm beginning to remember why I didn't like remembering you."

Gideon is not falling for it and he's even more incensed after seeing someone make Kremy of all people unsure about something.

Gideon: "So what. This is just 'YOU' now? You're just gonna leave and take Torbek along, just like that? He's not coming back this time?" 'The Duke' steps back again, testing how far he can push his retreat without being suspect. He stretches his arms in a gloating manner. 'The Duke': "I assure you, I have lived more in this body than 'HE' has ever forgotten." The Duke smiles cruelly, all teeth, eerily wide and full of malice. 'The Duke': "But that's right. You're the chosen heroes of the faewild, aren't you? Then ask yourselves this: are you really okay with erasing someone from existence just because you like another side of them better?"

Twig: "We are if he's a little BITCH!" Gideon gives the brownie a supportive pat with a laugh Gideon: "Well said Twig."

'The Duke': "But is that JUST?" He continues to raise his arms in a taunting manner, but it is clear he is starting to look and sound a little more harried (as anyone with sense usually is after prolonged exposure to these idiots) 'The Duke': "You think you can get him to override me? ME? The Duke of the Twilight Court??!"

Kremy sidebars with Gideon. Kremy: "We could if we got him to fall off the Herris wheel couple more times." Gideon: "Hehe yeah! Couple a hits and he'd be back to full form no problem!" Kremy: "Can't hit him too hard though, have a repeat of Chuckles." Gideon: "Nah, He ain't a clown, I don't think he'd laugh to death if we punched him in the body like Chuckles did."

'The Duke' interrupts, flustered at being ignored. 'The Duke': "ENOUGH!" 'The Duke:' THIS is the faewild; MAGIC country! Anything is possible. We'll see who the land's deem most worthy of sticking around. A distinguished aristocrat-- or a blubbering waste of flesh." Bonus panel: Internal Torbek dialogue represented in a sad thought bubble 'Gottttta say, the odddds aren't in Torbeksss favorrrrrr'

[Some details have slightly shifted as I developed this idea more, but I thought there was still a lot to like in these character interactions in this original draft.]

[crooked-wasteland]

Hazbin Hotel Live Blog: Hello Rosie

I’ve realized that I spent a long time belaboring the accomplishments of other writers, but I don’t think I ever touched on Ariel Ladensohn. Responsible for the episodes Scrambled Eggs and Hello Rosie, she is credited for shows like Solar Opposites and Futurama, however she has only written a single episode for the Futurama reboot that I can find whereas she is a producer for the show otherwise. Meanwhile, she has minor, single episode writing credits for series like My Little Pony Friendship is magic in 2019 (A Horse Shoe-in), and Clifford the Big Red Dog. In fact, the most credit to her name is under Justin Roiland’s Solar Opposites where she started as a consistent script writer and eventually entered middle management as a story editor. She has a family history within show business through her mother Cybill Sheperd, a well-known celebrity and model of the previous generations. Based on Scrambled Eggs, I will say that episode feels like Justin Roiland fare, and I don’t expect much different from this episode.

Even the series seems self aware at times with Angel Dust proclaiming all of Charlie’s ideas thus so far being failures and Husk even pointing out that the more Charlie tries to do, the worse it gets for everyone else. Charlie lives in this place of protection because of Lucifer, supposedly. This idea that Lucifer is trying to protect her and it’s why she is never in danger during the exterminations isn’t one I’ve actually seen confirmed in the show in any way. It’s alluded to, but with how much of the show is unspoken and outright fabricated with deceit being framed in the last episode as “It’s a lie because otherwise nothing makes sense” when the world building as a whole doesn’t make any sense, I don’t trust the show. I don’t trust the show or writers to know what they are talking about and reluctant to give them any grace in that way. Seven episodes into an 8 episode series and all you’ve accomplished is confusing me. Has Charlie ever even been helpful? We still don’t know what progress is supposed to look like. And we are supposed to think Angel Dust in episode 4 sees Charlie as a friend he can protect while she’s still the Princess of Hell for one and, two, here we see him lamenting her meddling entirely. No one has faith in her but Vaggie, and even then, having faith in Charlie is her entire personality.

Side point, but Vaggie adding”In our room” didn’t sound or feel like she was sad. Rather, we just added that line for some reason? Am I supposed to get the vibe that Charlie and her are broken up in some way from the angel reveal? Or is this the dialogue stating out loud that it is their shared room and that they are in fact a couple because otherwise there is massive room for doubt due to how sanitized the lesbian relationship is in this series. I don’t know, I can’t tell, both can be true because there is so much and yet nothing at all in this series on every level.

If only the show actually showed that the Egg Bois were unreliable narrators at some point. Instead the few times we see them it is that they have difficulty following orders. Not that they actually are unreliable in everything.

So going back to this massive plot point of Angels only being harmed by Angelic weapons, like I said last post, this huge reveal fails to land or build any interest for numerous reasons. For one, Carmilla’s whole business is arms dealing with angelic weapons that Angels just leave behind. Like, a cornerstone of the lore of Hazbin is that angelic weapons are just dumped like litter into Hell every extermination, so one would think that if angelic weapons are the only thing capable or harming angels, Sera would have had a very tight rule about making sure all these weapons are returned to Heaven for their own safety. Even if you want to make the argument Adam and Lute don’t know this, Sera definitely would. And her entire hope for keeping Heaven safe is entirely negated because Adam’s goons are just supplying Hell with the only weapons that can kill angels every year. Second, as stated previously, Vaggie was injured by angelic weapons when Lute attacked her and carved out her eye. It makes no sense that she wouldn’t know the power of angelic weapons. Point three, Vaggie’s wings were torn off by Lute’s bare hands. I’m reminded of Dan Olsen’s video essay The Art of Editing and Suicide Squad where he talks about the use of the Unicorn plushy in the film and the way a narrative must reinforce an idea for these sort of plot points to be effective.

“Then, in the tower brawl, Captain Boomerang is wrestling with a tar monster who stabs him right in the heart. And for a second you go ‘oh no!’- but, Being a savvy and attentive viewer, you immediately go ‘ah wait, the unicorn!’ And you pat yourself in the back as Boomerang pulls out the knife stuck in a wad of money.”

This feels like the Suicide Squad Unicorn situation. There is so much going on and no one in the room was able to catch these contradictions in the production. By the narrative denaturing on such a foundational world building level, the weight of every reveal and plot point is about the equivalent of a paper ball. It fails to ground the world, abide by its own rules, and thus never succeeds as a show. It is a concept that never pounded out the impurities and results in a confusing waste of time.

Wait, did Charlie forget about Cannibalism Town? Episode one she made a point to declare it in the song and how everyone was bright and smiling. So it shows an understanding of what foreshadowing is as a concept, but because no one else remembers or knows anything about Cannibal Town, Ariel was forced to reintroduce the setting in such a way that feels like bad writing. My point is, Ariel is doing the best she can here, the issue lies with Medrano and how she drew attention to Cannibal Town when it wasn’t relevant but never reinforced the plot point. Again, the unicorn plush situation pops up. Because she failed to incorporate Cannibal Town throughout the series, we needed this whiplash redo of the setting to actually immerse the audience in a way that makes narrative sense. Ariel is doing the best she can and it should be noted that this was the best way to rush this plot point because Medrano did nothing she needed to do up to this moment. Cannibal Town needed to be explored a little every episode and incorporated in all of the plots for this to work. By just announcing it in the first episode to try and hint this was going to be important, and then go another 2 and a half hours of content with no reminders at all, Ariel’s only hope was making this a plot hole to try and smooth over the train wreck this whole aspect of the show turned into.

In fact, I just remembered Ariel did Scrambled Eggs, which would have been perfect to set up the reminder of Cannibal Town and its importance by focusing on Rosie. Instead, the episode focused on Zestial and having him and Alastor catch up when it very obviously should have been Rosie for this specific purpose. Was Kritzer more expensive than James? Why focus on this character so long when all he serves is as a vessel to Carmella confessing her involvement in the killing when Rosie is far more important a player? I’m not saying they should have cut him out entirely, but that time would have been better suited with giving Rosie more to do.

My nitpick of the episode is that Rosie’s voice and character bothers me and rips me out of any level of immersion I could have. The accent is noticeably fake to the point it is distracting and the dialogue and pacing is so paint by numbers Jewish mother stereotype that is actually feels too slow. If this makes sense, she isn’t delivering the lines fast enough for it not to feel like a blatant caricature. It’s a stereotype that feels like a stereotype because it hits just off the mark ever so slightly that it draws all the more attention to it. For a show with breakneck pacing, these scenes drag and it is due to the delivery entirely. And before someone does attempt to argue the actress, Leslie Kritzer, is in fact Jewish, yes, she is half Jewish on her father’s side with a Puerto Rican mother. Kritzer was raised Catholic and was not privy to the Jewish Mother character growing up, despite being ethnically half Jewish. That does matter.

The terrifying thing is how the whole negotiation scene with Rosie is so rushed. She says she likes Charlie’s moxie when all Charlie has done is have the prelude of a mental breakdown in front of her. She made it clear how everything is her fault, how everyone she cares for is in danger and pretty much doomed. The literal definition of Moxie is “Force of character or determination” when all Rosie has seen is Charlie actively caving under the weight of everything. That is, in fact, the opposite of moxie. Sure, we have seen her stand up to Sera and stand up for her beliefs, but Rosie has not. This is a common issue in Medrano’s writing where she fails to know which characters know what. They are ignorant when it is convenient and just as equally omnipotent when required. And, like I said, they also feel too slow. The delivery is just too slow and the scenes are too fast, too much happens when it makes no sense and everything just feels like a waste of time.

I just realized why this scene feels like such a waste of time: it lacks tension. The sequence where Rosie walks up to Alastor is such a wide shot, her asking about his plan bears no weight. This is genuinely some of the worst scene composition. This is an expensive shot with Charlie, Rosie and Alastor as well as the need to use filler background characters in the corner to make the space feel lived-in. But this whole issue would have been resolved by utilizing he exact scene direction that follows. Have Rosie close the distance between her and Alastor and have it cut to a 1/3rd body shot of the two. Have Charlie cut from the scene as neither are even acknowledging her in this moment and it shows how Alastor and Rosie see her as a child, ignoring her despite being the princess of Hell. Have Rosie’s approach be an over-shoulder closeup from Alastor’s side, and instead of cutting off Rosie’s face, have the characters get closer together as the camera zooms in. Make the connection between Alastor and Rosie stronger so her words feel slightly ominous when she says “Alastor has never done me wrong before”. Where you wonder if you can trust Rosie, or if maybe Rosie doesn’t really trust Alastor and is giving a subtle warning. The utter lack of nonverbal storytelling sucks all depth and nuance out of the episode.

Carmella is a top tier character in a woefully subpar story. She is everything its clear Medrano’s wishes Alastor was. She is intimidating and intelligent. It tips a bit too far into ludicrous levels of knowledge that, if thought about, feels like it is the writer cheating. And it is. This absolutely is cheating, because the characters who should know Vaggie is an angel, for example, don’t. Alastor, Charlie, and Lucifer are either totally ignorant of Vaggie being an angel or are playing stupid. The reason Carmella has made is that it benefits her to not draw attention to herself, but Alastor should be able to make the same level of inference on Vaggie and doesn’t. To say he does but says nothing makes no sense because he could have been playing puppet master this whole time by using Vaggie’s angel status to control her and/or Charlie in any number of ways. And if anyone would know about Vaggie, it should be Lucifer. And Lucifer should be distrusting of Vaggie at the least. So Carmella is a cool character, but if we really think about it, it’s obvious that she’s just OP to serve a purpose in the plot.

I love Carmella’s long hair design, but the hair just is down in a microsecond of a scene. It was a change in a single frame that went by faster than a blink. It needed to have more emphasis for the reason to be understood: Vaggie is making excuses. It doesn’t translate clearly that Carmella is trying to pull the “equal footing” trope because there was no weight to her letting her hair down. It needed to at least be given a second to focus, not even a verbal acknowledgment, but just have Carmella let down her hair and make eye contact for a second before beating Vaggie up further.

I feel the need to have a small personal rant here, I have ballroom experience, I am also a Latino. The scene and song were ideally set to have a partner-based dance influence. I mainly dance waltz, but I feel a tango was ideal for this sort of song. The beat is too slow for a salsa. There are many different types of Latin dances to choose from (cha cha, salsa, tango, samba). The lack of appropriate Latin influences for a Latina coded character who is also heavily inspired by dancers, and yet none of the proper dance influences were taken advantage of. This entire character concept was fumbled hard. On top of it all, by not selecting a coherent dance style, the fight-dance choreography doesn’t make use of each person’s different strengths. Carmella uses her legs as her weapons while Vaggie has her spear in her arms. So Vaggie mirroring Carmella does nothing to improve her understanding of combat.

Steven Universe focused its use of music to individual instruments. Garnet was a synth bass instrument which heavily influenced her entire character design. Synth Basses are the backbone for many contemporary music genres, especially hip-hop. And Garnet’s character design from being black-coded to her dance style being Waacking, a form of street dance associated with the gay disco clubs of 1970s LA, specifically credited to black choreographer Tyrone Proctor. This is how you utilize ethnic coding in an animated musical. Instead, Carmella is Latina-coded with a Spanish guitar as her musical motif, with very specific native latin American motifs to her movements like maracas and a jaguar with a ballet style dance. This is a cacophony of influence with no understanding of any of them being forced together in a Frankenstein amalgamation of disappointment. Especially the minor use of maracas in Carmella’s character as they are very unique and important to Mexican and Latin culture.

Charlie’s feelings about Vaggie comes off extremely selfish. Vaggie was an exorcist which is hinted at to be a human soul, which means her neglecting to tell Charlie she was an exorcist wasn’t a lie. She was a fallen soul by that point, just like any other person in Hell. She has a history like the rest of them, but her time in heaven would be just a relevant as her time alive, which the show has made clear doesn’t matter to anyone in the series. So having Charlie need this sort of pep talk shows why her hotel is a failure more than anything: she doesn’t really believe in anything she is saying. As a concept, sure, but in practice, her sense of redemption has never previously required confession. Only when she feels entitled to another person does it suddenly matter. She doesn’t care about who Angel Dust or Sir Pentious were before coming to the hotel. Them killing other sinners doesn’t affect her at all. It is only when it’s someone she feels personally entitled to, or a sense of ownership over, that suddenly someone’s past matters. And that’s hypocritical. In fact, it goes deeper still in how Charlie is only interested in who Vaggie was before and no one else, but that comes from a sense of owning Vaggie. Everyone else, Charlie rejects on a fundamental value. Angel Dust’s hypersexuality is uncomfortable for her and she wishes he wasn’t that way. Nifty’s sadistic weirdness is uncomfortable for her and she wants that to change too. Husk’s aloof alcoholism is also a problem for her. Even with the Cannibals, she demands them to change (tone it down) to fit her sensibilities even as she is asking them to possibly die for her. I have seen people claim that the whole criticism of Heaven is hypocricy, I’ve said before it isn’t. I’ll assert it again: Heaven isn’t the hypocrite, Charlie is.

The first thing I said upon finishing this episode was “I would have rather seen the episode of Angel, Pent, Nifty, and Husk resolving to stick together despite thinking they had been abandoned. The character drama and the conclusion of them really coming together would have been far more intimate and cathartic than seeing Charlie and Vaggie “make up” by talking with complete strangers.

3/10

[sgiandubh]

Belfast: not your average working-class drama

So, yes: as promised, I watched Belfast last night, until the wee hours of the next morning. And I have to immediately add I do not feel the need for a re-watch. As usually, I shall not insist more than necessary on the storyline and focus instead on the raw impressions I am taking home with me.

It was a strange experience, given all the huffing and puffing and hype and backstage context, inevitably involving C. And I defy any OL fan to watch and process it otherwise: the circus was what it was, at its time, Vanity Fair major PR blunder included. Whether you are a hardcore Balfe Nation stan or a shipper, that bias is there, looming over your screen as you try and get into the magic of it. An ambitious and, at least for me, unfulfilled goal.

The storyline is personal, in a cinematic niche that screams for political statements, peppered with psychological heaviness and guerilla brutality. The Guardian's Peter Bradshaw spoke in his chronicle about an 'euphoric eulogy' (https://www.theguardian.com/film/2021/oct/12/belfast-review-kenneth-branagh-jamie-dornan-judi-dench), where the NYT's Jeannette Catsoulis saw ' grit and glamour stroll hand-in-hand' (https://www.nytimes.com/2021/11/11/movies/belfast-review.html), with a marked, delighted nod to C's performance as Ma. So yes, we inevitably deal with 'rose-tinted glasses' and 'softened edges', in this nostalgic, elegantly shot coming of age plot. The aesthetic is there, with a black& white sleek filming choice that makes everything so dense at times, you simply have to hit pause and let it sink in. It is, I suspect, Branagh's nod to Truffaut and his Antoine Doinel five movie cycle, starting with Les Quatre Cents Coups (The 400 Blows, but this is an inept translation of an idiom that means 'to break havoc'), another coming-of-age working class story set in Paris during the Fifties and also shot in black and white. A clever choice that allows the audience to focus on the dialogues, without any other distraction. And ultimately, a statement that also heavily drags you by your coat's button: "hey, there, I am an independent, intellectual movie featuring beautiful people amid hardship: wanna be friends?"

Being totally impervious to the Fifty Shades of Grey charm allowed me to focus on C's performance and I have to immediately say I found it elegant, clever and endearing. And also immediately add that I still have no clue about how the hell she managed to drag all her Claire Fraser mannerisms, all the way from Inverness to Belfast and 1743 to 1969 (another important year for OL, as we all know, and that coincidence made me grin). I loved (loved-loved-loved) the broken plates' scene, but in all fairness, was it that different from the moment she slaps Laoghaire in Castle Leoch's kitchen? But I truly resonated with the tiny moments when we see her really struggling to make sense out of the Inland Revenue string of letters and find a solution to a very clear family conundrum, with the result that we all know, I suppose, by now. So yes, Mrs. Balfe: portraying strong, honest, salt of the Earth women absolutely suits you and I'd love to see more of it in the future, if only perhaps with a different, more realistic angle.

So the real question I bet you're all waiting for me to answer is this: was it an Oscar-worthy performance? Sadly, my answer is no (no matter how deep I would like it to be otherwise - and I swear I did and I do). And it's #silly and very unfair to her, I know, since it has to deal, in my humble opinion with the script's own limitations and the complete failure to find a balance between the child's gaze and the mother's presence. As the script and storyline go, Belfast is Jude Hill's movie and it is to him I would have given the Oscar. Not Judi Dench, whom I love dearly and whose voice is the most beautiful, rich, intelligent movie voice ever to have graced this Earth. She didn't need just another trinket of Hollywood affection for what is a correct, but over all forgettable performance, unlike Ciaran Hinds'. Who was simply extraordinary and that's all I can say: I am in love, and when I fall in love, I shut up - not babble on blogs.

Would I recommend it? I don't know. I mean, it's Branagh, and to be honest, I don't hold the man in great esteem. I think his reputation as the neo-Laurence Olivier is way OTT and I am also deeply amused by his pretense to be an intellectual luminary among the glitterati, when he obviously is not. But, as always, this is just me and my very clear-cut opinions. You don't have to follow them or even believe me and as always, it's just better to go see for yourself. With this caveat: don't expect too much out of it and you should probably be fine and satisfied.

I sure was very pleased to watch this nugget, my favorite scene in all the movie, to be honest. It's got perfect sarcasm and all the poetry one can find looking at Cartier-Bresson's delicate photographs of schoolchildren waiting for the lesson to end and life to truly start anew:

[apenitentialprayer]

are there any Jews who view Jesus in a positive way (aside from like messianic Jews who, as far I’ve understood, are considered evangelical Christians by all other Jews)

Okay, ah, to answer this question simply: to my knowledge, as far as Jewish communities who (1) self-identify as Jewish, (2) consider themselves practicing Judaism, and (3) deny that Jesus of Nazareth is the Messiah go, none of them have an "official" stance on Jesus. Jesus may be a false Messiah, but this is only a "doctrine" in Judaism the same way that the fact that Vissarion of Siberia is a false Parousia of Jesus is a "doctrine" in Christianity — which is to say, not so much an actually asserted belief, but a natural corollary to more deeply held beliefs.

That being said, individual Jewish people have held a variety of beliefs about Jesus of Nazareth. Some of them are, well, quite negative. For example, one Hasidic story tells of how the Baal Shem Tov saw Jesus and Sabbatai Zvi (both false Messiahs) stuck in the same level of Hell together; the infamous Toledot Yeshu, a parody gospel, certainly does not paint Jesus or His Mother in a particularly good light; Maimonides doesn't even use the usual "may his name be blotted out" as he would when talking about an enemy of Israel, but instead uses "may his bones be ground to dust" after citing Jesus by name.

There are relatively sympathetic views among those whose views are negative too, for the record; for example, there's a story of a Rabbi, Yehoshua ben Prachya, who was said to have been incredibly cruel to a student, and by the time he chose to relent that student had already gone off to form his own idolatrous sect. Struck by the consequences of his harshness, he would go on to emphasize the importance of kindness and giving people the benefit of the doubt. Though the timeline doesn't match up (Yehoshua lived two hundred years before Him), some commentators identified this student as Yeshu the Nazarene.

But, let's actually answer your question. You will find a spectrum of relatively positive views. Bob Dylan technically falls outside the parameters I listed above because he does seem to believe Jesus is the Messiah, but I'll use him as the extreme example, because he continued to be active in his Orthodox Jewish community after his conversion. You also have Leonard Cohen, whose Jewishness was very important to him, who could at least understand the importance of the mystical connection to Jesus that Christians claimed as their own — "the figure of Jesus, nailed to a human predicament, summoning the heart to comprehend its own suffering."

You have some scholars, like Amy-Jill Levine; in the work she did in The Misunderstood Jew, The Historical Jesus in Context, and The Jewish Annotated New Testament, she tries to emphasize the idea that the Person of Jesus is something that can bring Christians and Jews into closer ecumenical dialogue; that if Christians could get more comfortable with the Jewish context of Jesus, and if the Jewish community could see the New Testament as a corpus of texts that isn't non-Jewish, but rather a particular type of first century Jewish, then there could be ground for both groups to better understand each other.

During the early modern period, there were attempts by some Jewish thinkers to reclaim Jesus. Rabbi Jacob Emden argued that Jesus never meant to abolish the Law, and that He has actually "done a double kindness in the world" by increasing veneration of the Torah and bringing light to the Gentiles, if only the Gentiles could learn how to properly interpret their own Scriptures (talk about flipping the script!). Moses Mendelssohn also claimed that Jesus never meant to abrogate the Law, and suggested that Jesus and the early Christian community could be models that modern 19th century Jews living among oppressive Prussian authorities could emulate.

The above paragraph was about Jewish individuals who tried to distance Jesus from traditional Christian understandings of Him. So I'm going to end, I think, with Rabbi Jacob Neusner, who engaged the Gospel on its own terms. In 1993, he published A Rabbi Talks with Jesus. In this book, Rabbi Neusner imagines himself as a first century Jewish man and tries to earnestly listen to and consider the words of Jesus as depicted in the Gospel of Matthew. This work places the words of Jesus in conversation with the Rabbinic tradition, and ultimately ends with Neusner being unconvinced and unable to follow Jesus as His disciple. Pope Benedict lauded this work as an authentic exercise in interreligious dialogue, and cites it frequently in his own Jesus of Nazareth.

[vermintine]

could you post the okiyuma rants anyway. i would like to understand the vision

Yea ok! These were all over the place so I tried to rewrite and organize them to be more or less coherent

[I saw you mention in the tags that you aren’t familiar with their lore so for context: Yuuma’s bio, Okina’s bio + summary of her religious references, Yuuma's Stage 8 cutscene and ending (text only 1 2), and a rundown of their story line in Sunken Fossil World:

both of them want to monopolize the oil/blood sea in the Former Hell of Blood Pools, but Yuuma found it first; Okina causes the oil to leak on the surface and pollute the water, prompting several Gensokyo residents to investigate. None of them manage to defeat Yuuma, so Okina sends in Flandre to kill her. Yuuma is resurrected and seeks to form an alliance between her organization and Gensokyo, so she and Okina become co-managers of the Hell of Blood Pools. People keep wandering in there for sightseeing, forcing Yuuma to seek the culprit. She confronts Okina and they blame each other for the tourist problem and end up battling. After Yuuma wins, they catch the Yorigami sisters trying to scam people with the tours, but they decide to leave that whole problem for Reimu to deal with]

Ok so:

(↑ taken from a different translation)

My interpretation is that during their fight they came to understand each other by using their powers: Yuuma can comprehend things by consuming them; Okina says "your back is not lying to me" so maybe she could gain insight of a person by peering through a door on their back (using her unexplained power over mental energy?)

(and she straight up says that the only way to understand Yuuma is to be consumed)

Elaborating on that, does Okina want to be consumed because of her usual attention-seeking tendencies (wanting to be known and understood)? If Yuuma consumed some abstract fragment of Okina during the fight - and she perceives things by swallowing them whole - would she crave more to get a clearer picture?

And despite seeing Yuuma's true nature, Okina only grows more fond of her; everyone else in SFW was freaked out by her or at least disliked her.

There is also a certain term that Okina uses in that exchange that was kinda lost in translation:

(I get that it was likely translated to avoid confusing people with her theatrical/religious references, but her dialogue in HSiFS is just as confusing for the exact same reason, yet none of it was dumbed down like this)

Translating it as lie or madness feels like over-explaining a metaphor; the whole point is that she implies both. It's also possible to interpret it as her comparing Yuuma to herself - it's said that everyone dances to Okina's script, meaning that she is a god of noh and a manipulator. So in that sense she implies that Yuuma is being a manipulator too; alternatively, she is calling Yuuma a disruption, like a kyogen performer in a noh play.

Yuuma also likens Okina to herself calling her unparalleled in greed - much like when she says it to the Yorigami sisters, she seems to mean it as a compliment (she also lives off greed and appears to enjoy eating it the most) Speaking of compliments:

Madness is a running theme in SFW: Yuuma is shown to be going mad from trying to consume all desire and hatred from the dead beings from which the oil is made. She toils alone without rest, wallowing in her own greed as she fantasizes about all the power she will have to dominate both hell and the surface world, and viciously defends her petroleum from intruders.

(source)

In this context, madness is meant as recklessness, destruction (and self-destruction), and especially greed. The entire plot pretty much revolves around Yuuma, Okina, and their greed.

Yuuma is more honest with herself at least:

Okina gets an excuse because in the end the oil is in the right hands (allegedly), but she still caused pollution on the surface and manipulated Flandre only so she could take control of the Hell of Blood Pools:

(source)

However without her involvement, the incident would not have happened in the first place. This reinforces her as a god who sometimes uses destructive means for the "greater good". In this case, it is a bit similar to her role as a god of tengu-warding, and how that concept works.

For context:

(source 1 2)

(source)

In the Grimoire of Usami Okina talks about looking for "true madness", she also chastises her servants for spreading madness poorly; both likely in reference to her warding off madness (lack of wisdom/enlightenment in this context) by spreading it herself.

So it's ironic that Yuuma "defeats" Okina with her own methods: like Okina's attempt to beat Yuuma with Flandre's destructive powers (beating a void with another void); and like the leap dance is meant to ward off tengu, Yuuma's mad performance ("your kyogen") defeats Okina. That metaphor also ties off their ending as they agree to exist not as enemies but as ~business~ partners, like the link between noh and kyogen.

It's also interesting that Okina avoided a direct confrontation with Yuuma until the very end, probably because she knew they could just keep fighting indefinitely - Yuuma would just keep consuming everything Okina could throw at her. Yuuma won because she managed to drag Okina into that futile fight - that realization was likely what made Okina concede. Besides being the only person (so far) who can stand up to Okina, Yuuma also is the only one who almost saw through Okina's scheme in SFW - she got her overall intentions right, but instead of blaming the oil leaks on her she thought it was the tours.

Bonus Yuuma bringing up Okina for no reason in UDoALG even though she's got nothing to do with the plot at all

So yea they are funny and annoy everyone around them including themselves and then they destroy each other for fun. They should be together in future games or manga and say more weird shit and cannibalistic innuendos for me to overthink <3

[avelera]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. spread the self-love ❤

Ooh, thank you for this! As for tagging onward, I'm terrible at picking people and I hate to impose, so if you see this and want to fill it out just say I sent you ^^;;;

Giving Sanctuary: The Sandman, Dream/Hob, Canon Divergence AU. Basically, "What if Dream and Hob got together in 1689 when Hob was at his lowest and they bonded over the fact both of them have lost their sons?" Probably one of my most emotionally mature works, I poured a lot of my own meditations on life and grief into it, and it has some of the best dialogue I think I've written to date. I'm also quite proud that it's complete, lol, a running theme in this list.

The Only Way Out is Down: Pacific Rim, Newt/Hermann, post-Uprising but in an attempt to make sense of Uprising and add some depth and poetry to the years Newt and Hermann spent apart. Newt is trapped in a coma after the Precursors are destroyed and Hermann Drifts with him to try to wake him up. In the meantime, they pass through a mindscape inspired by Dante's Inferno, in which each of the 9 years they spent apart take on an aspect inspired by the Circles of Hell that they have to disrupt in order to move on to the next one. Basically a Newt Recovery fic that flips the script and explores how gut-wrenching and traumatizing those years would have been for both of them, but with a lot of humor and healing, this is not meant to be an angsty slog and some of my best comedy is in it too I think. Quite proud of how I interwove Dante's "Inferno" into the structure of the story, quite proud of the fact it's finished and novel-length, and I think I grew at writing character voices and sustaining them throughout a massively long fic with this one. I still jump to read any comments I get for this one because I'm so proud of it, you would not believe how much work went into it.

Prayers to Broken Stone: The Hobbit, Thorin/Bilbo, BotFA fixit in a way but we take the long way 'round. Dragon Sickness literally turns Thorin into a dragon and he and Bilbo need to survive being locked up alone inside Erebor long enough to find a cure for him, or else. The story is much more psychological than it may sound, it's much more about exploring Thorin's trauma through the lens of him turning into the creature he fears and loathes most in the world. Very proud of this fic since it's the first long fic I ever finished, it's the one that made me actually attend some highly competitive writing workshops since I finally felt like I had become a competent enough writer to be able to actually complete a novel. Also quite proud of the characterization, voices, and mythology created for this one.

Shanghaied: Pacific Rim, Newt/Hermann, post-Uprising again. Post-recovery fic, Newt returns to Shanghai where he was held captive by the Precursors for ten years and slowly spirals mentally when forced to confront the physical location of his torment once more, all while trying to put on a brave face for Hermann that only grows more manic as the night goes on. Still perhaps one of my most emotionally... sincere? works? It's the most based on personal experience during a bad time in my life but translated into a flavor of angst I don't see as much of in fic, it's probably one of my more literary pieces in that respect? Anyway, I'm very proud of the maturity of emotion in this one so I always race to see any comments that get left on it.

5. Come live with me and be my love: The Sandman, Dream/Hob, alternate 1789 hookup. Dream loses a bet to Desire and must live for one year as a normal human, in this specific case, one year as the husband or wife of a human of his choosing, without almost any of his powers, in order to better understand how humans live. Dream chooses Hob as his spouse, naturally, since Hob is the least unbearable of humans and not mortal and therefore not in danger from him. Hob is only too glad to oblige but unfortunately, this means Dream has to pretend to be a woman in order for them to blend in, so shenanigans ensue. While this is still a WIP I do intend to return to it and I am massively proud of it. I think it's one of the works I've done the most worldbuilding for from scratch, in the sense that I had to quickly familiarize myself to a reasonable degree with early 1800s England, a period I'm not actually all that fond of in history (I'm not really an Austen or Bridgerton fan, to say the least). I think it has some of my most ambitious writing in terms of scope and scale and some of the more clever writing in terms of building tension and crafting original characters who lend realism to the setting without overwhelming the central, more important characters of Dream/Hob and their story.

[cadybear420]

WIP Wednesday!

Thank you @lilyoffandoms!

So I've been kinda idly working on random things with writing for the past month. But then I started finally been replaying HSS:CA, and the Book 1 sabotage-framing arc really is just awful.

Everyone just goes from 0-to-100 in accusing CA MC

Ajay is OOC as fuck and accuses MC too despite having told MC "it's not your fault, you didn't know better and it was your first day" and also having warned MC of Danielle's jealousy and also does nothing against the other kids that bully MC despite being a hardass on immature behaviors

Don't even get me started on how the story really really really wants you to be kind to Danielle after she comes forward about getting OG MC's leg broken, just because she got super sad when she learned her crush's mom's life was on the line. I nearly had a shitfit I swear to god

It's very disappointing and frustrating, especially since the sabotage-framing arc in OG HSS Book 3 was handled much better IMO because at least the Hearst kids had some actual reason to accuse MC of sabotage. But that's an essay for a different day.

Right now, I'm working on a rewrite of that entire story arc. Where I attempt to rework a lot of the aforementioned problems. Of course I am also incorporating my own headcanons and making things more close to the personalities I have for my CA MC Cher and my OG MC Evie because I like to establish aspects of my personal canon. But hopefully that shouldn't take away from the problem-reworking.

For now, here's a portion of my first draft, where I attempt to make Ajay more unbiased. Or at least, actually trying to be unbiased. Hopefully I'm doing well with that so far!

And before you ask, no the final product isn't going to be in script format just because it's a theatre focused story lol. I'm just writing it like this initially because I am working with dialogue lines directly from the game.

And yes, Aiden is there too because he's composing the soundtrack and he should be watching their rehearsals for inspiration. I will indeed be giving him a bigger role in this story.

Tagging: @lover-also-fighter-also / @loreofyore / @spadesofgrass / @choicesmc / @somerandomjewelleryonthefloor / @rjschoicesstuff / @rosesnink / @gmsrrn98

and anyone else who wants to participate!

Cher: Ajay, please don’t tell me you buy this… Ajay: I… (he takes a breath) well… honestly, none of this is any real evidence that Cher was responsible. Anyone could have tampered with the props.  Aiden: Exactly!   (Cher smiles a bit) Ajay: But… it’s not an implausible explanation either… (Cher’s face falls into confusion) Cher: You can’t be… you really think I’d do something like that? Ajay: I’m just saying, we can’t rule you out as a possibility. I don’t have much reason to believe it… but I do also trust Trevor’s word that it wasn’t an accident. And we all know you did go back there to get props. Or who knows, maybe it was a damn accident. It was your first day and you didn’t know better. I don’t know what the hell to believe!  (Erin scowls at Ajay) Erin: You have to believe Cher! She’s our friend! Ajay: I’m sorry, what am I supposed to do? Just ignore that someone got hurt on my watch because of friendship? 

[theredqueenandthebloodwyrm]

Oh hohoho, episode two of season 2 was certainly something!

Love the soundtrack so much, it always elevates the scene.

MAJOR SPOILERS BELOW for HOTD S2 EP2 (House of the Dragon, Season Two, Episode 2)

The music choice for the opening scene? Perfect! 10/10! Made me feel emotions! The servants (and possibly other nobles?) being led out by the guards, the chaotic nature of it all, the impending violence! Ser Criston Cole seemingly trying to do something? Just trying to look busy?

Aegon’s raging was wonderful acting! (Personally I was a fan of the model of Old Valyria so bit sad to see it get wrecked but wowww the actor nailed that rage). Aemond being ominous per usual.

See I thought in the episode prior when Helaena called Jaehaerys “the boy” it was either a weird quirk in the script or a deliberate attempt character-wise for her to try and cope by not saying his name directly? But it feels weird having Otto and Alicent both say “The Child” when referring to Jaehaerys? Not even “My granddaughter” from Alicent? Or “Prince Jaehaerys” from Otto.

I do like the acting for Alicent, her breakdown and sobbing, that guilt and how she blames herself for what happened.

“You’re already seen as weak, Aegon.” That line from Otto is pure gold. Hate Otto Hightower but he is damn good at his political maneuvering, using Prince Jaehaerys death to garner sympathy and paint Rhaenyra as this cruel monster akin to Maegor. Sidenote: at least Otto mentions Jaehaerys was his grandson (technically great-grandson).

The dresses! The embroidery! Costume department is doing greattt! Love the horses being decked out in green and gold.

I do like how you can see Helaena’s face and eyes flit back and forth as she thinks and realizes what Alicent is saying when she comes into her room and says they’re riding behind Jaehaerys in the funeral. And how Helaena very much doesn’t want to do it and says so, yet even her own mother ignores her wishes. (Just like how Aegon ignores Helaena’s on the episode prior, interrupting Jaehaerys from his lessons). I also love that Helaena gets more lines, and how she cuts off Alicent attempting to talk about how she walked in on her and Criston together. It’s very much “fucking hell, mother, I don’t care about your sex life, my son is death and you want to parade me and my dead son through the streets.”

Holy shit they actually showed Jaehaerys’s body/head during the funeral procession. I finally understand the still of Helaena during the funeral that kept being used before s2 came out, the black wisps on her face are from the black veil she’s wearing. I’d panic and freak out too if I was Helaena, my wagon gets stuck and suddenly a bunch of people swarm you and are reaching out trying to grab you, it’s already so much traumatic stuff happening coupled with the constant loud calling of your name, it’s overwhelming.

Rhaenyra’s sparkling red dress is so pretty. I love it. Daemon being a smug little shit, love that for him. Jacaerys being a responsible Prince and heir to the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra chewing Daemon out was such a well written piece of dialogue. But like What do you mean you’ve never trusted him wholly Rhaenyra?? Either she’s bluffing or the writer’s were on something because she was all for Daemon and trusting him. They got married because she wanted him (and his support but mostly because she wanted him). I suppose this is how they’re starting to drive the wedge between Rhaenyra and Daemon so when he goes to Harrenhal and spends time looking for Aemond (according to what I’ve heard/the wiki). I did think it was odd for Daemon to not just outright say he wanted Jaehaerys dead / accepted Jaehaerys as an alternative option for Aemond’s head instead he denied it. I feel like he’d probably be more likely to embrace that he did, and expect approval from Rhaenyra THEN she would be all “you’re pathetic, I never asked nor wanted Jaehaerys dead”.

Baela! Baela! Can’t wait to see her on Moondancer! Jace & Baela scenes!

Caraxes is back! Caraxes is back! My Blood Wrym is backkkk! Looking great as ever!

Awww little Aegon and little Viserys! Rhaenyra’s baby boys are so cute. And yeah I noticed the juxtaposition between them cleaning up Jaehaerys bloody bed then switching to Rhaenyra’s own blonde-haired toddlers. Criston Cole is such a petty projecting bitch man, getting on the case of another knight of the Kingsguard whose cloak had gotten physically muddy while Ser Criston has dirtied his white cloak in another way (failing to protect the royal family, sleeping with Alicent, etc). “Will you so easily sully our ancient honor?” Nah but you sure will Criston. THIS MAN! THE AUDACITY TO ASK what’s his name of the Kingsguard where he was when Prince Jaehaerys was murdered. Hah you fucking tell him whichever twin you are, where were you Lord Commander?

YEAH WHY THE FUCK HASNT THE QUEEN (QUEEN HELAENA) BEEN GIVEN A SWORN PROTECTOR? YOU ARE INFACT MAD, SER CRISTON COLE! seven hells, this man is so fucking annoying, he’s literally pissing me off with his whining bullshit, blaming everyone else except himself. Ah, his name is Ser Arryk.

Baela with her crossbow! Jacaerys going to check on her because she missed supper! Jacaerys reminiscing about Laenor spending time with him, and Baela asking of Ser Harwin Strong! Ohhhh I love Jacaerys and Baela. “I miss Luke.” That line from Jacaerys. Ohhhh someone help me, I can’t deal with this tragedy.

The Brothel scene with Aemond made me uncomfortable yet I can’t articulate why? It’s this weirdly vulnerable scene, he’s curled up in this fetal position, looking almost scrawny and small? Yet even then while he claims to be sorry for Luke’s death, he still downplays his own actions never taking full responsibility (at that point just embrace the evil shit you’re doing).

Ohhh so we’re meeting Ser Hugh this time, nice. Love Addam and Alyn so far! Great brotherly relationship. I feel like Addam and Alyn’s personalities ought to be switched? Not sure, we’ll see, I love them both so far anyways.

Love Corlys and Rhaenys’ relationship lol. Otto’s rage at Aegon’s rash decisions and stupidity is absolutely lovely and hilarious. Great acting from everyone. Aegon’s dismissive nature, not caring how many innocent men he hangs if there was a chance he got the guilty man alongside it and Criston Cole being the new lapdog of the King. Otto trying desperately to play politics while Aegon fucks shit up.

Oo we got to see more of Elinda, one of Rhaenyra’s ladies-in-waiting/handmaiden. The fight between Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk was tense, wonderful, good use of the environment. Ser Lorent Marbrand, Oo he’s from the Westerlands (House Marbrand is in the Westerlands).

Ohhhh they mentioned Daeron! Can’t wait to see Tessarion. Oh greattt (sarcasm) Alicent and Criston are having sex again, can’t wait to see Criston further project his own insecurities and emotions onto other people.

[goodboyaudios]

Hello! My name is Grim, and I fancy myself a bit of a researcher. Now, this is not for anything important or extremely serious. Instead, this is mostly for my own pure enjoyment and something I have in the works that is to be posted on Tumblr. You are not obligated to answer any or all of these questions I have posed. I know it’s a bit much. Take your time, but don’t feel obligated to do anything. Feel free to add any additional input! Thanks for your consideration!

1. How different do you think your work would be, in terms of getting across a point, in a different medium thats not Audio RP?

2. How do you think your work would be different if it more reflected main stream industry forms of storytelling where you as a creator would be more separate? (ex. movies, tv shows, games, etc.)

3. How important do you find the voice acting in your work?

4. You are the primary voice of your works. Would you consider taking a step back from voice acting in your work to focus on narrative work?

5. Do you believe your own individual ability to voice characters enhances the story overall?

6. Do you enjoy the idea of a “Listener character” or would you better prefer to not have one?

7. As a writer, how does the writing of the Listener take you out of your comfort zone? (ie their effect in relationships, plot movements, etc.)

8. Is Audio RP your favored form of art?

9. How do you believe Audio RP differs from main stream forms of art/entertainment?

10. Do you believe that your work has over arching themes that relate to you personally? (very optional)

Sure! I'm happy to answer some questions!

I think with the addition of a visual medium it would most definitely be significantly easier, yes.

Well, I can't say for sure. I could explain for hours about how mainstream media forces a creative to conform their work within often-times hostile parameters. Nevertheless, I'd be blessed with the opportunity to try. That being said, I have a lot more creative freedom here on Youtube than anywhere else, at least by my standards.

I think it's very important. Conveying enough emotion without the added visuals means that it is ALL DOWN to vocal performance.

I am typically the primary voice, yes, but I must admit this is a very difficult question. I love to write stories of scifi and fantasy, I love to take concepts and ideas, pieces of dialogue and conveyed emotion and put them into an all expansive list of things to try, but I personally love bringing those emotions and ideas out myself. I find it fun! I suppose...I wouldn't! Writing is fun, don't get me wrong, but being able to perform it is part of my joy in creating what I make. If I stopped doing one, I'd have to find it elsewhere and that would take me away from doing the other thing.

I like to believe that, yes. It only makes sense that the writer knows the exact feeling to convey in a script, but you could call me vain for that if you like lol!

Listener characters are the bane of my existence lol! Okay, that was too dramatic. It's very difficult to write a character that doesn't talk, but represents...basically everyone! How do you compensate for that? And echoing dialogue is not something people do on a regular basis. No one talks like that, but we need to in order to get across what the listener is thinking at any given time, because if you don't, everyone is confused. It's quite frustrating and a hell of a dilemma in the scripting process.

Well, like I said earlier, I have to try and accommodate for everyone which is a challenge all on its own. It's VERY easy for the listener to become a talking head and I try my best to avoid it. Alas, I imagine even the greatest xlistener writer has fallen into that trap lol

No, it is not. I like 2D animation and RPGs.

Money? Budget? A lot more emphasis on visuals? When you start out as a content creator, you start with nothing and are tasked with making something, but with mainstream media, the network hands you a budget to make something. Granted those things might not be great given the parameters of the network, but hey! At least you can say you made something!

Very much so, yes. Zed is directly related to my insecurities and fears of not being enough as a person. Makkaro is related to my need for a work/life balance so that I might enjoy the little things while still giving my all. Albus is a toxic form of what I wanted to be when I grew up, a man who can fight through anything, but inside is deeply broken. Yargwynn is my running away from my problems in hopes that it'll all just go away. Mortallous is those problems always chasing me, always catching up. One day, I will tell a story of Zed realizing who he wants to be. That story will show that the man I really want to be, is myself. I will no longer be Good Boy Audios, but Good Man Audios. Yeah, it's cheesy as fuck, but hey, I like cheese.

Thank you for your questions. I really appreciate the time you took to ask me them. And I hope you enjoy my stories moving forward too!

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

yo, do you think Netflix could make a better Moon knight show than Disney plus?

And other than Oscar Isaac, who would you cast as Moony?

I mean daredevil Netflix is better than most mcu movie so a Netflix moon knight show might be better than the Disney one

Alright, thank you for your time :D have a nice day!

Hello!

Oh that's a tough question.

I absolutely adored the Netflix Daredevil. Specifically season 1. The hallway fight scene is my happy place. Netflix is known for blowing it out of the water When They Want To. Not to mention the casting was the single best casting job I've ever seen. And Frank Castle? They couldn't have done better.

Since Disney has not actually taken the reigns of Dare Devil yet, it's hard to say how they will choose to carry on the story or what different choices they will make.

But the real difference in the two? How much they are willing to invest. Because it really was all about the script, the direction, and the cast.

You see, Marvel (And Disney) tend to have very strong opinions about what happens in their movies. And these choices have affected many of the movies in very negative ways. Often leaving the directors, writers, and actors very frustrated.

They also tend to heavy hand things and put a lot of pressure on directors. Not to mention that Marvel has an ultimate goal to reach and when you start interconnecting things, it's going to get MESSY.

My biggest joy in Moon Knight was how it was a stand alone and not involved in a larger messy plot with an end goal of tying him into a larger franchise to make movies and more money.

It's a big worry. The more big characters you have involved, the less time you are going to have to establish and develop each individual character and their relationships. And since Moon Knight has his own inter-system relationships to deal with first, there is a HEAVY chance things are going to get overlooked or underutilized or cast aside in favor of a quick fix or sloppy story telling (Looking at you End Game).

I think that the Moon Knight we got in season 1 was absolutely amazing and that was in large because of the freedom that was given to the cast and crew and director of the show. The absolute freedom and research and care they put into it. I'm not sure they would have had that financial ability if Netflix had done it. Not to mention they would have put limits on the set design and location. Disney has that lovely ability to just go "You want the Wadi desert? Let's go."

And OSCAR. This man MADE Moon Knight. His own research, input, and creative suggestions. He was the one that gave Steven the accent. He cast his brother as his body double. He even chose to do the single shot mirror dialogue with Marc and Steven. That's a flex that a lot of actors can't do. There have been MANY that have tried to play multiple characters and complained about how hard it was the whole time. Oscar took it as a fun walk in the park. I honestly can't imagine anyone else doing a better job or even as good a job as he did. If they had used anyone else, it couldn't have been a well known name. It would have had to be a new person. (All though I did just try to imagine Ryan Gosling as Marc for the briefest of moments and it gave me some serious Smallwood vibes. That Smallwood scrunkle on that face? Yes.)

And trust me, when I heard they were making a Moon Knight show with Disney, I was skeptical as hell going in. I'm super protective of my boys. I feared the worst. I have never been happier to have been wrong. I hope I continue to be wrong with season 2. I WANT it to be just as amazing. I want it to blow me out of the water and destroy me like season 1 did. So I'm just sitting here holding my breath and trying not to think about all the ways they could seriously mess it up. (there are so many).

Uh... Did that answer your question?

[ducktracy]

Have you ever wanted to join the writers room of SpongeBob and the Patrick star show?

THIS IS A TIMELY QUESTION! i was just discussing this with my director a few weeks ago. tldr before i even get to the long part: not necessarily, it's never really been something on my radar and so i don't feel as equipped for it but that could--and i hope it does--change!

LONGER EXPLANATION.. i was in a meeting with my director recently pitching my boards to him, and we got spitballing back and forth and we essentially just started joke pitching an idea for an episode. he was like "yknow that's pretty good, i could get you in touch with our script coordinators if you ever felt you wanted to take it further" and my response was like ahhhhhhh nah i could never write an episode i wouldn't know where to start blah blah blah, and we basically had a talk that amounted to "don't knock it 'til you'll try it" and so it's definitely been more on my mind lately

IT'S AN INTERESTING SITUATION. i'd consider myself a decent writer and i certainly enjoy doing it, most of my free time is spent writing my reviews! likewise, i LOVE breaking down and analyzing dialogue and coming up with random character conversations. talking to the person who typed the entire Hamlet soliloquy in Porky's stutter one time because ?. i think i'm more interested in writing than i think i really am

but something about writing for cartoons has always been very intimidating to me HAHA. i'm not really someone who is sitting on a wealth of episode ideas and dying going like "ahhh man i wish we could see SpongeBob and Patrick doing this", etc--if and when i have those moments it's usually very spontaneous and in the moment! like what i mentioned above when i'm spitfiring in a meeting. i think i get intimidated by the "where the hell do i start" and "how do i organize this" aspects, because i have had ideas for cartoons before and aim to act on some of them! i still haven't forgotten the "Porky and Daffy are competing salesmen" cartoon idea i thought up in 2020 which is also partially responsible for my job in the first place. but it's like a blip, a skip in a record in that i struggle untangling and organizing and really establishing a working structure. i am a VERY detail oriented person and so i think i like working smaller and more intimately, where i can add my own personal flair to something that someone who may be more proficient in establishing a foundation has done.

BUT! maybe i just say all this because i haven't done it yet!! don't know it unless i try! for my purposes as an artist now i enjoy drawing and embellishing pre-existing ideas and suggesting gags and getting into the nitty gritty of the details on a small scale, but i also don't wanna put myself in any boxes and restrain myself from trying, either. i don't talk about them as much on here just because they literally dominate every other aspect of my life (well that and NDAs forbid me from doing so!), but i love SB and Patrick and all the Bikini Bottomites deeply! i'm so lucky to get to document their lives. they really are like real friends to me and i hope i'm lucky enough to find more ways to fraternize with them and learn about them and bring out their tics and habits and traits and how they contrast and support one another. i do that best through drawing right now, but i'm excited for all the ways i'll be able to expand beyond that. and maybe one day that'll include writing!

ALSO KINDA FRAGMENTED I KNOW i just made my closing statements above. i apologize for my pedanticism. but TPSS doesn't have a writer's room to my knowledge because it's board driven! we get to sit in on storyboard pitches (just had a wonderful one this evening) and watch the artists pitch their boards and it's such a wonderful experience. i have thought "i wonder how it would go if i pitched to the network like that" in sitting in these meetings. BUT JUST WANTED TO CLARIFY i know writer's room is an all consuming term and i'm being pedantic. but it's very neat that we get to work on a board driven show to begin with and has made quite a difference and so i just like pointing it out :) i love what we're doing