#demo's and art book flip throughs

[zoejameswilliams]

How to Draw a Mushroom: A Pencil Drawing Class For Beginners #drawingtu...

#drawinglesson drawingforbeginners drawingtechniques artforbeginners drawingstilllife #Join Art Class with Zoe on Youtube for more drawing and watercolour lessons #demo's and art book flip throughs

[anim-ttrpgs]

Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy, Introducing the Snoops!

Introducing the snoops! You just saw one right now in the Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy logo! These shady little guys are kind of the mascots for Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy, found all over the rulebook* playing hero and villain alike. They are meant to invoke the image of an old-timey detective or spy, as you can probably tell.

We went through a number of little terms for them before settling on snoops for now, including “dicks”, but the rest of the team won’t let me swear in the rulebook. They're called snoops because they be snoopin', among other things.

They serve kind of a similar role in the Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy rulebook to the role Vault Boy serves in the Fallout games. In fact, Vault Boy was a direct inspiration for this kind of iconography. Like Vault Boy, snoops appear unreal all kinds of different roles, sometimes hero, sometimes villain, but always there to iconografy some kind of rules concept or game mechanic.

Like here how Vault Boy appears dressed as the Grim Reaper to demonstrate the Grim Reaper's Sprint perk, and appears holding a all the types of weapons that get a damage boost from the Cowboy perk to demonstrate the Cowboy perk, we have—or plan to have—a snoop for every occasion.

Traits in Eureka: Investigative Urban Fantasy are not exactly the same thing as Fallout perks, nor were they inspired by them, but in much the same way as how Fallout uses a Vault Boy for ever perk, we plan to have a snoop for every Trait. Here is a link to a post all about Traits.

as well as use them to demonstrate key concepts and mechanics in the rules themselves.

This is not only fun and looks good, but the snoops also help readers find exactly where to stop when scrolling or flipping quickly through the Eureka rulebook. If you’re trying to find the beginning of the Composure section fast, you just have to remember that that’s the snoop that’s breaking down into puzzle pieces. Also, here's a link to a post all about the Composure mechanic.

*unfortunately, art is hard and time-consuming, and that’s why relatively few snoops have made it into the existing prerelease rulebook and demo that you might've seen thus far. But, I have some good news, the next patreon update will include a bunch more, including many of the ones you’ve seen here.

If you want to play this game, you can get the full prerelease rulebook plus a bunch of other bonuses for just $5 on our patreon, or go to our website to download the free demo version along with a free starter adventure module. However, the free version has very few snoops. Sorry, you get what you pay for. The patreon supporters will be getting a bunch of snoops in the next big update, though, so stay tuned!

Also, we are running a TTRPG Book Club, where everyone nominates indie TTRPGs, votes on what to play, reads&plays them, and discusses! It has over fifty members at the time of writing this! You can find the invite link to the book club on our website!

By the way, the snoop that appears in our company logo below and who is also kinda the main snoop, his name is Conway.

#conway #eureka: investigative urban fantasy #rpg #ttrpg #eureka #roleplaying #tabletop #indie rpg #coc #fallout new vegas #fallout 4 #fallout 3 #fallout 76 #fonv #fallout art #fallout 1 #fallout 2 #new vegas #snoops #snooping #composure #perks #ttrpg design #ttrpg art #ttrpg tumblr #indie ttrpg #ttrpg community #ttrpg character #ttrpgs #supernatural rpg

[ashtrayfloors]

So you wanna be a punk? Read a zine. Drive around in your car with the windows rolled down, smoking cigarettes and screaming along with Clash songs. Or quit smoking, and get rid of your car, because those things are bad for you and the environment and they support evil corporations. Ride your bike everywhere, with Mischief Brew blaring through your headphones. Walk everywhere, listening to Against Me!, because walking is still honest. Shoplift from stores like Walmart and Barnes and Noble, then spend the little money you have supporting independent artists and small businesses. Sell your zines at a benefit party, give all the proceeds to Food Not Bombs or Planned Parenthood, even though you’re broke and can’t really afford to be giving zines away. Fuck it, scam copies from Office Max so you can keep giving copies away. Give one to the cute person with the mint-green mohawk you always see hangin’ downtown. Sew patches crookedly onto your hoodie, with dental floss, natch. Spend hours putting studs on your black denim jacket, even though half of them will wind up having the prongs bent to the point of being unusable and it feels like an exercise in futility. Wheat-paste posters or put up stickers or tag with Sharpie everywhere you go—political messages, song lyrics, surreal images, it doesn’t matter. Leave your mark. Go to a show and lose yourself in the music and the pit. Or stay out of the pit, ‘cause you’re just not into it; stand in the back clutching your beer and nodding your head and feeling like an asshole. Start a band, write some songs, never play any shows; figure out that no one in the band is as serious about it as you are and quit. Record a solo home demo of your songs, spend months getting it to sound just right—or at least as right as it can sound without a full band—and never let anyone hear it. Constantly say you’re dropping out of the punk scene, but never quite manage to do it. Tell people you’re so punk you hate punk. Say you’re gonna be a rude boy, like your dad. Watch punk films and read punk books and have them remind you of so much of your own life that you almost can’t breathe. Think about your life and your old friends, the ones who are dead, the ones you never talk to anymore, and the few that you’re still close to. Start to cry. Feel emo. Make a t-shirt that says: “Don’t call me emo. It makes me cry.” Call your friends, the ones who’ve stuck around. Go to the grocery store late at night. Make fun of articles in women’s magazines, because even though some of you are part of the right age group and gender to be their target demographic, their articles are so far outside of the realities of your lives that it’s hilarious. Write your own zine, about the reality of your life. Call your friends, the ones who’ve stuck around, get together at someone’s apartment. Make veggie nachos. Eat til you’re so full you can’t move. Talk about what you’re doing with your lives and feel like losers ‘cause none of you thought you’d still be so broke and pissed off when you reached this point. Feel shitty ‘cause being angry, old, and poor isn’t as cute as being angry, young, and poor. Be glad, despite it all, that you’re still alive, still hearing new music, still hanging out with friends. Flip off cops who are harassing teenagers for skateboarding or some other minor infraction. Realize that flipping off a cop won’t bring the system down, but doing it still feels pretty damn good. Throw an MDC record on your turntable when you get home; blast that shit. Go to a show, a party, a zine fest, a coffeeshop, see another punk. Go up and talk to them. They’ll turn out to be cool and you’ll have a new friend, or they’ll turn out to be assholes but hey, most punks are assholes. Still get crushes on every punk you see, despite that. Give no fucks about anything, except the things you really care about, like music and books and art and your friends and family and the state of the world and… Tattoo and pierce yourself and dye your hair and wear mismatched, dirty clothes because that’s how you feel comfortable, not because anyone else is telling you to. Try sometimes to look normal, in situations that call for it, and feel like a complete fraud the entire time, like everyone can tell you’re only pretending. Call other people posers, but don’t really mean it. Call yourself a poser, and claim the word with pride. Spend a night alone, tipsy from booze or jacked-up on caffeine—pick your poison—singing along to all the old songs and realizing that most of them still mean as much to you as they did half your life ago. Refuse to grow up. Realize that you’ve grown up despite your best efforts not to, and you have a job and bills and a family and/or other responsibilities, but that you’ve still got that spark, that match-struck, steel-toed, silver-studded, loud as fuck spark hanging out in your heart. Sometimes, that’s good enough.

—Jessie Lynn McMains, from “What We Talk About When We Talk About Punk” (c. 2012-2015)

#jessie lynn mcmains #prose #punk #excerpt #punk as identity #what we talk about when we talk about punk #my writing #ashtrayfloors #2010s #(it says 2012-2015 cuz i first wrote the essay this is from in 2012 but then edited it/added to it a bunch over the next three years) #the punk rocks #yeah. YEAH

[kellanved-ammanas]

TF2 Drabbles: Scout/Sniper - Nosy Hypocrite

Summary: Perhaps Scout being rlly good at art and he drew the teams shenanigans and then they accidentally find his sketchbook and are rlly Impressed wit him.

~

“Yo, Sniper, I was just fixin’ to head out to get ya, come over and take a look at this,” Engie said, interrupting Sniper’s attempt to sneak his way through the common room to the base’s kitchen.

Sniper took one last wistful glance in that direction before walking over to the card table where Engie, Pyro, and Demo sat. “What is it?”

“It fell out of Scout’s bag before he left on his run,” Demo replied as he handed Sniper a familiar looking sketchbook. “So I grabbed it to take a look since he ain’t never let anyone look at it despite doodling in it all the bloody time.”

“Turns out he’s pretty damn good artist,” Engie added. “You seem to be one his favorite muses.”

“He likes you,” Pyro said with a little gleeful clap.

This was part of why Sniper liked to live in his camper van a short distance away from the base. Not a single member of the team had much respect for anyone else’s privacy. That being said, Sniper’s curiosity outweighed his desire to not be a nosy hypocrite. He looked down at the sketch book in his hands, flipping it open to the first page.

On it was a pencil drawing of the whole team, posing dramatically. He’d seen Scout’s little napkin doodles before – those were the only artworks he ever willing let anyone else look at – and had thought them pretty good but when Scout really put effort into something, the results were impressive. Scout was indeed quite a good artist.

Sniper started flipping through the pages, pausing to look at each one. Most were done in pencil or sometimes pen, a few were coloured with what might’ve been coloured pencils but, not an artist himself, Sniper wasn’t sure. Subject matter wise, Scout had most often depicted members of the team, portraits occasionally but mostly them doing things, sometimes clearly fictional, but some might’ve been based on or even drawn while observing a real thing happening.

True to Engie’s words, Sniper featured the most often, both in pieces that were just doodles but also in more polished ones as well. There were even a few of him sleeping or shirtless and one in particular that made his face grow uncomfortably warm at the sight of in which he was both. Did Scout really look at him like that? And that often? Yeah they hung out a lot but…

“It don’t mean anything,” he said upon reaching the end and looking back up at the three of them, waiting for his reaction. “He just draws what’s in front of him and he likes to hang out with me for some reason so…” he trailed off with a shrug.

“You sure about that, laddie?” Demo said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’m sure. We’re just friends. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m out of coffee in my camper. I was on my way to the kitchen to get more.” He turned and left, purposefully bringing the sketchbook with him. There was a decent chance the rest of the team had already seen it and if not, they’d soon be informed of its contents anyway, sparking who even knew what kinds of rumors, but he’d return it to Scout anyway. He always stopped by Sniper’s van on his way back from his run, he should appreciate it as well as the heads up on the fact that people had seen it. … And maybe, perhaps, if it came up naturally and could be asked as non-awkwardly as possible, Sniper might ask why Scout liked to draw him so much and if it actually did mean anything.

#my writing #tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 drabbles #speeding bullet #scout #sniper

[niseag-arts]

On gender and warhammer: a personal account

Or: in light if recent events, I have been introspective for a bit. Personal history and shit. Feel free to ignore.

Let's start off here: I am nonbinary but largely closeted. I have large breasts that will not let themselves be hidden by a binder, and I have long hair (with an undercut, but I don't always have it tied up). The thing is, if I walk into a local game store, people are going to think I'm a woman.

I have been actively engaging with warhammer content for 5 years now. But let's start earlier.

When I was 14, my cousin introduced me to warhammer. I was obsessed with wolves so he showed me the space wolves and tried to get me to play. I asked my mum if I could get this game, but my mother told me that I was not allowed to play games in which people get slaughtered, and thus I had to disappoint my cousin and tell him that this wasn't for me. Life went on, my cousin and I lost contact, and I didn't think about this game he had been so passionate about again for years.

A lot happened. I went to university, came out as nonbinary to my friends, got in a relationship, and moved to a different country.

And then, one day, someone at the role-playing society I'm in posts a call for players for a Dark Heresy campaign. I find myself interested to re-explore this thing I only vaguely remember. So, I talked to the GM about making a tech priest. It excited me! I explain the concept to my partner, and she flips out at me about how this is disgusting and that if I play this that must mean that I want to be "less than human" as well. I play in the campaign anyway (the relationship was long-distance, so she couldn't actually stop me). We had a great time. I fell in love with the world building and dove into reading the novels on my e-reader. I couldn't do much more than that, not with the risk of my partner flipping out on me again.

After she broke up with me. I bought my first box of skitarii. It sat on my shelf. I lived in student housing, and I didn't have the space to work on them.

Now, something to know about me is that occasionally, I get dysphoric about my hobbies. I like arts and crafts and reading by the light of scented candles, among other things. And sometimes, when my brain is mean to me, it tells me that those are incredibly feminine and that they prove that I'm a girl.

So...one day, after I've moved into a rental property, I see those skitarii on my shelf and decide to open the box and put them together. I liked working on them, I love tiny detailed crafts! And, for once, that nagging dysphoria voice in my mind is quiet. It lets me paint my little dudes without telling me that this hobby is too feminine... because, well, it's warhammer. And, you know, I am fully aware that that is dumb and that warhammer is for everyone. But dysphoria isn't always reasonable. Regardless. I'm now very involved, happily painting my dudes and putting them on my bookshelf, reading the books, having a great time. I also make fanart and start talking to people on discord.

And then recently, someone in my social circle set up a demo game. I have about 500 points of admech at this point, so I pack up my dudes and learn how to play with them. I get beaten by his necrons a few times, someone else in the playgroup goes out of his way to read up on the specifics of my army so when I face his chaos marines he coaches me through, telling me things to do that I didn't even know I could do.

I returned to tumblr. And after a while I realise that I have lovely mutuals who appreciate me and I appreciate them and its all good. My experience with the fanbase so far has been great. Incredibly welcoming.

And then GW released female custodes. I am lukewarm on this, I like custodes, but I didn't really care at first... and then people started to spew hate. People are seething at the mouth at the existence of women. And it gets to me. I start feeling like maybe nobody wants me, a person assumed female, in "their" hobby. I look at my little dudes and wonder what i'll do with them now, if they'll remain on my shelf or if I'll give them to an irl friend.

But... no-one has been that way, irl. Nobody. I've met some folk with questionable political opinions, but even they were happy to talk to me about painting and things (even if they misgendered me all the way through, but swings and roundabouts). It's like the people yelling on the Internet are not actually in the lgs... but yeah, idk.

I've been having thoughts, and I needed to write them down somewhere.

And if you're my cousin reading this: It's not space wolves, but you were right. This is fun. Miss talking to you, man. (Didn't think you'd have a tumblr)

#don't worry my little dudes aren't going anywhere #just rambling #memories and things #personal

[xxcyberus666xx]

Interview: Sheldon Carter from Digital Extremes on the many changes of The Darkness 2 | Shacknews

March 7, 2011

[Reformatted interview]

Three years after The Darkness was introduced to gamers around the world, a very different looking sequel is in the works from a completely different developer. Canadian developer Digital Extremes now steers the ship labeled The Darkness 2, adding a graphic novel flair to the visuals and focusing on the personal story of Jackie Estacado. After being pleasantly surprised by the GDC 2011 demo, I discussed what nearly four years, a completely new engine, and a totally different developer can do for a series like The Darkness 2 with Digital Extremes project director Sheldon Carter.

Shacknews: How did Digital Extremes get involved with the development of a sequel to The Darkness?

Sheldon Carter: 2K Games came to us about two-and-a-half years ago. They came and they just said, "Hey, are you guys interested in working on The Darkness 2?" We're huge fans. We love The Darkness. So, we jumped at the opportunity.

Shacknews: Though The Darkness 2 is a sequel to the original from developer Starbreeze Studios, the game has adopted a very different visual style. Whereas Starbreeze used a more realistic look for the first game, Digital Extremes is going for--what you called in the presentation--a "graphic novel-noir" style. Could you explain that decision?

Sheldon Carter: I guess, you know. It's been interesting. We have this great foundation from the first game that we wanted to pull forward, in terms of the narrative focus of the game. We love that part of The Darkness and we thought there were lots of opportunities to go places with the demon arms and how they work. Artistically, being fans... You know, I grew up reading The Darkness. So, for me, I was kind of inspired by the comic books. That's our whole team, to some degree. We kind of took the graphic novels and we're flipping through it and you get all these pops of color and this high contrast lighting. You can see it in the images, the hatching that comes from hand drawn art. We just felt like that was true to the source material. If you're making a game like that--and I take nothing away from the style that Starbreeze used--but for us, we were inspired by that for how we wanted to make the game. So, we decided to bring that forward in the art style.

Shacknews: For Digital Extremes, this is the first original and complete game you've worked on in a few years. Previously, you worked on the multiplayer for BioShock 2 and will soon ship the PC version of Homefront. Now you have The Darkness 2. What made this the project your studio decided to work on?

Sheldon Carter: The last project we fully did all the way was Dark Sector and that was about three years ago. So for me, it was kind of coming off of Dark Sector and we worked a little on some of those projects you mentioned but our core team, that was actually the next project we jumped to. We were just really excited about it. We were fans. I played through The Darkness... I think I bought it day one. I have that kind of "fanboy" side to me too, so I was really excited. I love Riddick as well, so I really wanted to play a Starbreeze game. When it came to us we were like, "What would we do if it was our game?" And I think the decisions we made were on, "How can we make the demon arms more exciting for the players to use?" For the darklings, we felt like they were interesting as a gameplay tool but we felt there was a huge opportunity to add personality to them and be a part of this great narrative.

Shacknews: There were some specific functions the arms had in the original game. There were elements like going through vents as the arms to accomplish tasks. Is that still the idea behind the demon arms in The Darkness 2 or do they serve a different function?

Sheldon Carter: I'd say one that one of the things that we've put more of a focus on is the action elements and those action elements being close to you. Like, you actually are physically right in the heat of combat. Things like the "creeping dark" from the first game, that's kind of a more stealth focused gameplay mechanic, which is cool but it's just not what we wanted to do for this game.

Shacknews: So, this is more of a "full-blown" action-focused experience?

Sheldon Carter: Absolutely, from that perspective. Like I said, the pillar above all for us was in service of story. So the stuff that we really wanted to keep--and I mean really wanted to keep--were these great moments in Darkness 1 when you're sitting on the couch with Jenny and you're watching To Kill a Mocking Bird or being held back by The Darkness while Uncle Paulie is killing Jenny. These narrative moments we thought the first game did such a great job of letting those moments breathe and actually let the player experience them. So, Paul Jenkins was the writer on the first game and he's the writer of the comic books. He's also the writer of this game. We really worked closely with him because we want to have that same experience. That's core to the experience people want when they're going into The Darkness. The stuff that they want is this personal story that's not rushed through like so many shooters kind of are. (Carter frantically taps his finger on his hand in a line) Like, plot point... plot point... plot point. We want to give you that time to identify and know who the character is in a struggle. But in that combat stuff we wanted that to be exciting. So that's why we have that "quad-wielding" that you saw in the demo. "Snap: grab a car door, shoot through a window, slash a guy if he gets too close, throw the car door, and cut him in half!" We want it to be this kind of "comeback concert" where you have a lot of notes you can play.

Shacknews: Is every element of the "quad-wielding" mapped to the triggers and shoulder buttons/bumpers?

Sheldon Carter: Yeah. So if you're dual-wielding the guns the two triggers are shooting. Left bumper is your grab, so that's all the environmental objects or even guys when you get them into a stun state. Slash works with the right bumper and the right stick. So what you can do with that is gesture. You can slash up or down. Slash pretty much anyway you want. It's really expressive, I guess.

Shacknews: That's one way to put it, I suppose! "Oh, I cut a guy in half. I've just expressed myself. They have been expressed."

Sheldon Carter: Yes. That's expressive. (laughs)

Shacknews: The first game explored a lot of the "lineage" behind The Darkness itself. There were a lot of World War I flashes, for example. Does The Darkness 2 explore these settings too or is this a look at how Jackie Estacado is now dealing with the changes in his life: the loss of Jenny and his new role as the Don of his family.

Sheldon Carter: That's kind of the base idea. You're the Don of the family now, you're in New York. But again, that's what is so cool about this game is that you've got this demon inside of you so you should kind of expect to have some kind of fantastical elements and not just on the character. The character has a fantastical element with demon arms and darklings, but then the environments have to... you have to sometimes travel to other places too. I won't get into too much about it, but yes. You should expect more than just you.

Shacknews: The darklings: are they A.I. controlled or do you guide them?

Sheldon Carter: It's actually funny because he is the darkling. He's your sidekick.

Shacknews: Right, it's just the one. With a Union Jack t-shirt.

Sheldon Carter: Yeah. He's a British guy. He's really got his own character and personality. He helps you in combat. You get to influence him. He is A.I. controlled but there is influence. I guess we're not talking about the progression system yet but there are ways of influencing his behavior.

Shacknews: We've talked a lot about the narrative direction, which would imply a wholly single-player experience. Is that the focus or is there a plan to expand it into something more? Remembering the history of Digital Extremes, your company has a fondness for multiplayer.

Sheldon Carter: That's a good question. I guess at this point there's no comment on anything other than the narrative experience that we've put together.

Shacknews: Focusing then on the single-player. It seems that Jackie is haunted by what happened with Jenny. Is that--and I've never read The Darkness--but is that progression going to be familiar to those who have stepped into the world of the graphic novels?

Sheldon Carter: Well, what's so awesome is that we have Paul, so if we want to deviate from that... I mean the comic isn't necessarily canon. It's more of a guide. Even from the first game, it kind of deviated from the comic but it kept the core ideas. So, we're doing the same thing. Jenny was such an important part of The Darkness 1 and such an important part of The Darkness I.P., I guess. She has a huge role to play in this game. She's like a returning character that is in a kind of a... I mean, in the demo it's hard to say what exactly she is. But she's a returning character. There's a few returning characters. In the demo we mention Aunt Sarah. But there's also new characters. (In the demo) you see Vinny, who is kind of your sidekick in the mob. He drags you out of the restaurant trying to get you to the dark because he knows what Jackie can do. There's a big cast in this game.

Shacknews: I want to return to the graphical style for a second and get your opinion on something. The Darkness 2 is ultra-violent, at least that's what I gather from the demo, and the first game was pretty violent too. Does this graphical style give you more freedom to explore some of the more outlandish executions, for example, or does that mindset not even enter the equation?

Sheldon Carter: Using the comic books--like I was saying--if you flip through them, all you're going to see are these huge splashes of blood. I mean, that's what The Darkness comic is. Every other screen is Jackie ripping a guy, or "The Darkness" ripping a guy in half. When we go with this high-contrast and these color pops, it goes from being so muted and I think that's when it becomes fun. It becomes vibrant and it's something you can see.

Shacknews: The Darkness 2 is set to launch on the PC, Xbox 360, and PS3 later this year.

Sheldon Carter: Yeah. Yeah, we're getting close. We just signed Mike Patton. He's coming back to do the voice of The Darkness. We're really excited about that. I'm a big Mike Patton fan. Voice recording is starting in a few weeks for most of the cast. So, we're getting close.

Shacknews: Do you do that all in London (Canada, where Digital Extremes is located)?

Sheldon Carter: No. I wish man. It's all in Los Angeles.

Shacknews: Digital Extremes has a lot on their plate right now. Homefront is about to ship. You have this. Your studio is pretty big. You have thoughts on where to go from here?

Sheldon Carter: I guess we're always thinking about what's next. An independent studio, right? You're always thinking, "Where's the next meal?"

Shacknews: (laughs) Yeah, that's one way to put it, sure.

Sheldon Carter: Right now we're pretty focused on this. I mean Homefront we're excited and can't wait for that to ship and then the studio's main focus right now is getting this done.

Shacknews: You guys must walk around really depressed all the time. I mean, This Darkness 2 is violent and a little psychotic and Homefront is super grim. Do you have on staff psychologists?

Sheldon Carter: (laughs) Yeah. I guess that's why, again, for us you compare and contrast those two games. Both are really grim. We try to be a little more colorful. The color palette in The Darkness 2 is more vibrant, so you don't have that oppressive feel. Not to say it isn't gritty, it's just a little more fun to play.

Shacknews: Here's the million dollar question I don't like asking but people want to hear it as early as they can. Are there plans for this game in terms of support following its launch?

Sheldon Carter: Yeah. I don't think... I'm not sure if I can talk about any of that right now, but we definitely have plans for it.

#Video games #Interview #Top Cow #2k games #First person shooter #The Darkness #The Darkness 2 #.txt

[jedivoodoochile]

ON THIS DATE (50 YEARS AGO)

October 29, 1973 - John Lennon: "Mind Games" b/w “Meat City” (Apple 1868) 45 single is released in the US.

"Mind Games" is a song written by John Lennon, released as a single in 1973 on Apple Records. It peaked at #18 on the Billboard Hot 100 and #26 on the British singles chart. It was the lead single for the album of the same name in the US but released the same day as the album in the UK.

This song, which was begun in 1969 and can be heard in the Beatles' Let It Be sessions, was originally titled "Make Love Not War," a popular hippie slogan at that time.

Four years later, the lyrics evolved into "Mind Games", which was inspired by the book of the same name by Robert Masters and Jean Houston (1972). In keeping with the original theme, the lyrics advocate unity, love, and a positive outlook. The lyric "YES is the answer" is a nod to his wife Yoko Ono's art piece that brought them together originally. The song was recorded as Lennon split with her for his 18-month "lost weekend" with May Pang.

__________

CASH BOX, November 3, 1973

JOHN LENNON (Apple P-1868) Mind Games (3:59) (John Lennon, BMI—J. Lennon) From his forthcoming album of the same name, John comes through with his most powerful recorded effort in some time. Top flight vocal performance backed by that steady, yet driving, tempo accentuates some great lyrics, all in making for a great song. Definitely Top 5 within a matter of weeks. Flip: no info, available.

__________

BEATLES BIBLE

Written by: Lennon

Recorded: July-August 1973

Producer: John Lennon

Released: 16 November 1973 (UK), 29 October 1973 (US)

John Lennon: vocals, guitar

David Spinozza: guitar

Ken Ascher: keyboards

Gordon Edwards: bass guitar

Jim Keltner: drums

The title track of John Lennon's fourth solo album began life as Make Love Not War, a protest song in the vein of Give Peace A Chance.

The first-known recording of the song was made on 11 February 1970, the date the Plastic Ono Band appeared on the BBC television show Top Of The Pops to promote Instant Karma. Yoko Ono's former husband Tony Cox was documenting events on camera on this and the following three days and captured a guitar performance of Make Love Not War by Lennon.

Lennon recorded a piano demo of the song towards the end of 1970 at his home in Ascot, England. It was released on the 1998 box set John Lennon Anthology, although it was incorrectly annotated as coming from 1973. The demo went no further than the descending chords of the verses, and the lyrics "Make love not war/I know you've heard it before" and "Love is the answer/And you know that it's true".

During the same session, he worked on I Promise, which was based on a piano motif similar to Paul McCartney's song Oh! Darling. The brief recording also contained the "Love is the answer/And you know that for sure" lines, suggesting Lennon was unsure of what to do with the idea. This recording also appeared on John Lennon Anthology in edited form. In the original tape, he commented: "I keep using the same middle eight for every song."

"It was originally called Make Love Not War, but that was such a cliché that you couldn't say it anymore, so I wrote it obscurely, but it's all the same story. How many times can you say the same thing over and over? When this came out, in the early Seventies, everybody was starting to say the Sixties was a joke, it didn't mean anything, those love-and-peaceniks were idiots. [Sarcastically] "We all have to face the reality of being nasty human beings who are born evil and everything's gonna be lousy and rotten so boo-hoo-hoo..." "We had fun in the Sixties," they said, "but the others took it away from us and spoiled it all for us." And I was trying to say: "No, just keep doin' it."

~ John Lennon, 1980, All We Are Saying, David Sheff

Another version of Make Love Not War was filmed for the Imagine project, but was left out when the original 85-minute documentary was cut to 55 minutes. At this time the song was barely any closer to completion than it had been a year earlier.

On 10 September 1971 Lennon and Ono made a film, Clock, in the St Regis Hotel in New York. The hotel was their first home before they were able to arrange more permanent accommodation.

Clock marked the passing of one hour by focusing on the hands of a hotel room clock, but more interesting was the soundtrack. As Ono made arrangements on the telephone for her forthcoming art exhibition This Is Not Here at the Everson Art Museum, Lennon played a number of songs on an acoustic guitar. These included rock 'n' roll classics, some songs which appeared on Imagine and Some Time In New York City, and fragments of tunes he was working on. He performed the chorus of Make Love Not War, but still took it no further.

Eventually Lennon pulled all the song fragments together into Mind Games. Before entering the studio to record the album he spent a fortnight in pre-production, writing a number of new songs and finishing several others.

In the studio

The Mind Games album was recorded in July and August 1973. Lennon had abandoned most of the anti-war sentiment of the demos, although the fade-out did contain the lines "I want you to make love, not war/I know you've heard it before".

The new lyrics were based on a book, also called Mind Games, by Robert Masters and Jean Houston. The book promoted mental fulfilment through raised consciousness, and several of the key themes found their way into Lennon's lyrics.

The song was a clear return to upbeat pop music, a departure from the rock 'n' roll and radical sloganeering of 1972's recordings with Elephant's Memory. On Mind Games Lennon used a selection of New York session musicians who were able to create an appropriately lush sound for the the songs that Lennon wrote and produced.

"The seeming orchestra on it is just me playing three notes on a slide guitar. And the middle eight is reggae. Trying to explain to American musicians what reggae was in 1973 was pretty hard, but it's basically a reggae middle eight if you listen to it."

~ John Lennon, 1980

Mind Games was the only single released from the album of the same name. It was not a success, peaking at number 18 in the United States and 26 in the United Kingdom.

Despite being Lennon's most assured song for two years, his commercial standing had taken a hit by the political nature of the Some Time In New York City songs, and the public reception for his new material was less favourable than it had been. Had Mind Games being completed and recorded two years earlier, and issued shortly after Imagine, it would most likely have fared better.

#john lennon

[tgaisobelfieldsend]

EGX TRIP

INDIE GAME - billie bust up (giddy goat games)

personally i rather enjoyed the demo of this game. the majority of it was taken up by a chase scene that had a very funky and memorable song playing in the back as a singing enemy chased your character, with the screen randomly flipping or inverting as you parkour your way through tricks and traps to escape the house. the mechanics were troubling at first to get ahold of especially with the screen flipping, but luckily it didn't take me long.

the graphics were decent, blending 2d details onto 3d models. it was plain but in a stylised manner that was fitting to the type of game it was - though with that being said, that specific type of stylisation as certainly been done before, especially by xbox games. billie bust up will be available on both pc and xbox.

the focus of the game wasn't particularly made clear during the demo, but i think the game has potential for success. not anything groundbreaking, but it's fun enough to be worthwhile.

OLDIE - killer instinct 2 (rare)

a 2.5d fighting game very iconic to the time it was made. the game doesn't take particular skill or practice, just button mashing in hopes you strike your opponent and get a few combos on them before they're able to return it. i haven't played it before, but i love newer fighting games sharing the same kind of aspects which is why i was drawn to it - that being said, i didn't particularly enjoy this game. far too button mashy for my tastes often with no way to get out of spam hits. i still ended up even with catherine though :)

MERCH - dnd

i'd hope this counts as merch. the stand was set up with woods and warm lighting likely made to replicate the taverns that so often pop up in campaigns with a wide variety of different dice sets, creative cases etc on display with warm lights to compliment them. i ended up buying a metal dice set with a very steampunkish vibe that i am still immensely pleased with. £25 was rather steep for a price but given where i was i wasn't particularly expect less. the quality is beautiful and i have no complaints.

i would think the home-made resin dice sets and cases such as wooden swords, books etc would sell the best given how unique they are, even with dnd being such a broadly known thing that there is likely similar out there somewhere.

ART - i forgot her name :(

there was only one artist that i could find with a stall exclusively for art, and unfortunately her style was a little plain for my tastes so i didn't linger. nonetheless it was still impressive work which was successfully advertised through putting well-known characters she'd drawn on display.

BOARD GAMES - dnd

i didn't sit down to play any board games as i'm not a huge fan of them, but i did have enough bias to at least peer at the dnd set up. as what i'd imagine to be one of the more popular board games there, it was somewhere very accessible and easy to see.

[cottoncoble]

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[8bitscarlet]

I Hear a Symphony

*gif made by: @causeitswhatjesuswouldfreakingdo

Summary: You would have never guessed that dropping into your favorite record shop that you'd have your world turned upside down.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff & Reader

Genre/Warnings: 18+ ONLY!!!//MINORS DNI!! Fluff/Smut (cussing, alcohol consumption, smoking, oral sex, fingering, top!reader)

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: We're just going to 100% ignore whatever that Vision and Pietro cursed fan art was last night and just push it way down with some smut. Please DO NOT interact if you are a minor! Happy reading!

*please do not repost or translate my material or claim as yours. reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated!*

_____________________________

As you walk around the small record room, the smell of dust coming from the circulating air conditioning above you, you lazily flick through the record sleeves. You aren’t searching for anything in particular, your collection is already quite full and you always replay the same five. You’re just here to pass the time before a couple of work events later in the day.

For now, the late morning sun is shining through the poster lined windows as someone quietly tunes the instruments on the playing wall. The bell above the door jingles out it’s little song but you don’t look up. A worker slips past you carrying a box full of books to teach yourself an instrument. Flipping through the faded sleeves, you hear someone exclaim out in surprise, a loud thud following just after.

You glance up, eyes flicking through the store until you land upon her. A woman pouring out apologies to the worker she just bumped into. She pulls up the sleeves of her oversized blue shirt as her auburn hair falls from her half bun, bending over to help pick up the books.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” They gush out as the worker continues to assure them that it’s no big deal.

The woman rests a hand on her forehead, letting out a stressed sigh as she looks around to see who just saw that embarrassment. You watch the blush spread on her cheeks as her eyes rest on your humored eyes. Her mouth opens, unsure if you’re about to accuse her of something but you simply grin. The woman’s hand drops to her thigh, as she looks back at the worker quickly,

“She’s okay,” a soft awkward chuckle reaches your ears, “she’s okay. I promise.”

Your grin turns into a side smile as you nod, “That’s good to know. Thank you.”

Realigning your attention to the music in front of you, she pulls her sleeves over her hands as she stands on the other side of the aisle of records.

“What were you listening to?” She asks, pointing towards the headphones around your neck.

You glance up from beneath your eyelashes at her, already curious about those green eyes of hers. Leaning over to the vinyl player the shop leaves out to demo the records, you snatch up the sleeve and hold it up for her, “You heard of it?” The vinyl cover shows a band of four with their name in neon lights, Houndmouth.

The woman nods and you raise your brows in excitement, “Yeah.” Then her hand presses against her forehead, “Well, no I haven’t actually. I … I don’t know why I just said, yeah.”

You chuckle at how flustered she still is about her crash, “I don’t know many people who have.”

“Oho, so you’re a music snob?”

Biting the inside of your lip with a chuckle, you raise your brows, “Will I drone on about how you can’t fully embrace the music with shitty headphones? No, I don’t care. Will I never speak to you if you listen to the Sex Pistols? Absolutely.”

She lets out a hum as she places of a piece of hair behind her ear, “I listen to them.”

Looking at her with a tight grimace, you can see she’s never heard of them by the way she smiles at you. Clearing your throat as you quickly put the headphones back on the stand, you look at your watch with wide eyes,

“Look at the time! I need to get the hell out of here.”

Her laugh is contagious as you feel a constriction in your chest. Leaning forward towards the records, you rest your hands on the wooden shelf, “I don’t want to pry but… is that a Sokovian accent?”

The flush in her cheeks returns as she mindlessly flicks through the sleeves, “You certainly have the ears of a music snob. Yes. I am Sokovian.”

With a subtle nod, you slip the record you had been listening to back into its sleeve and replace it. Humming quietly, there’s a quiet thwump as she drops the pile of records she was sifting back into their place,

“How… how could you tell?”

Slowly turning the record you had shown her on your fingertips, you glance at her, “I did an internship over there.”

As you turn to start walking down the aisle, she mirrors you, matching your slow and short steps perfectly, “You went to university in Sokovia?”

You shake your head, knowing you had no degrees up on your old apartment wall, “Just some stuff with the hospital. Then I came back here.”

Her brows arch curiously at your short answer, “Why did you?”

Glancing over the aisle, her bright green eyes watch over you carefully as you give a shrug of your shoulders, “Something came up at home and it was more important to leave Sokovia. You know, cause of that Ultron thing.”

The brightness in her eyes dissipates as you mention that tragic event. You kick yourself, you shouldn’t have brought it up, it was still a fresh wound to any Sokovian. Their entire lives taken high into the clouds before being destroyed.

She bites her lips gently, “Yeah… that thing.”

Not wishing to cause her any more distress at the start of the day, you wave the record at her with a soft grin, “It was nice talking to you. I should get going though.”

As you step out of the aisle and start to round it towards the checkout, she quickly steps in front of you. Her hands knock against your chest as you stop yourself from ramming straight into her. You glance down as she pulls in a short breath,

“Hey, can I-,” She looks up at you with a hopeful stare, “Can I see you again?” She lets out a tightly held breath, her face scrunching in embarrassment with a wide smile as she braces for the inevitable rejection.

With an open smile, you say, “You want to see this music snob again?”

“I suppose I have a thing or two to learn.”

You nod thoughtfully, holding up a silent finger for her to wait. Walking past her, you show the record to the shopkeeper, reaching over for a post it note and pen as they ring you up. As they gather your change, you scribble two things on the note and slap it onto the sleeve. Jogging back to the woman who hasn’t moved a single step, you see the worry melt off of her shoulders as she sees you.

“Ta-da!” You say, holding out the record for her as you watch the joy form in her eyes, something you feel has been absent for some time. “If you give this a listen then maybe we can talk about it over coffee? Dinner? Throw crappy records off my yacht?”

Gently, she takes the record from your hands and taps your number and name with her thumb with a smile. Biting her lip she gives you a nod as you slide your finger across your name,

“Y/N. In case you get my mom and have to ask for me.”

She cocks an eyebrow, still trying to figure out if what you say is something sincere or a simple tease.

“I’m kidding,” you tell her as you hold out your hand, “My mom listens to the Sex Pistols. I disowned her.”

Her cold hand forms into yours perfectly, a soft shake shared between the two of you as she speaks, “I’m Wanda.”

Hearing her name for the first time is like listening to a symphony. As you mutter it to yourself for the first time, it’s like a cool drink on a hot summer day. Breathing in deeply, you watch the smallest scrunch in her nose as she glances down at the record again. You step back away from her with a smile,

“Be honest when you tell me what you think later!”

____________________

Sliding up off your motorcycle, you pull off your helmet and suck in the fresh air. You can hear the bumping of the music outside of the venue and let out an audible groan. Pulling out your pack of cigarettes, you pop one in your mouth as you toss the keys to the hotel valet.

Stepping into the outside gardens where the party is in full swing, you blow out a cloud of smoke as you stay on the outskirts for the moment. Staring at the half drunk people, you know you won’t recognize anyone here and you certainly don’t know where the host is. You know this is only half of the party, the hotel is rented out you’re certain and that's where the rest of the people are.

Only a Stark could rent out a hotel for one night of fun. He always hosts such grand parties and somehow you always got an invitation. Sure you spent some time tinkering with him just as the Avengers were starting up. And he nearly shot his repulsor technology at you when you showed up at his doorstep, begging for him to take you in and hide you after you told him the truth of who you were. Still after all these years, an invitation always arrived in your email. Along with invitations to work for him. It didn’t feel right to work for the Avengers after what you’d done. Who you once worked for.

You were tired of running from it though and accepted both invitations that sat in your email inbox last week.

You smooth out your shirt, sliding back your hair as you flick your cigarette into a half drunk and abandoned glass. Taking a small appetizer from a passing waiter, you glance around the crowd ensuring you don’t recognize anyone and no one recognizes you. The moment you got on your bike, you knew there would no use trying to find Tony after arriving this late. You decided to find him tomorrow at the office as you sit yourself down at the bar for a few drinks.

Those few drinks go down easily as you order another one. You feel someone sit in the empty stool next to you. Their bare arms slide across the bar top as they shout out their drink to the bartender. Your eyes glide across the soft skin, dropping to the large slit that rises up her leg. The dark red dress hugs to her body tightly, showing off her toned legs and curves. Rings cover her fingers as she spins them, waiting for her drink as she talks to someone standing near her. Her chestnut hair falls in lazy curls, framing her face so perfectly. A face that holds red painted lips, a small scrunching nose, and two haunting, emerald eyes.

Realizing those eyes stare back, your brows raise in surprise as you lean slightly towards her. Her eyes slowly register who you are, pure delight filling her face as her hand rests onto your arm.

“Nice party, right?” you poke fun at the drunkards surrounding you with a grin.

Wanda’s grin matches yours, “It certainly has room for improvement.”

The bartender slides both drinks towards each of you. Grabbing yours, you lift yours up as she grants you the soft clink of her glass to yours. Taking a drink together, you adjust your body to face her, swinging your leg in and out as she crosses hers tightly.

“Were you here with someone,” you eye the man who was talking to her earlier, “Or are you just here?”

“Here for someone,” she tempts with a casual slide of her foot against your calf, “What about you?”

Watching her with a careful grin, you answer, “I’m here for someone too but they seem nowhere to be found.”

As she sips on her near dark purple drink, Wanda sighs as she leans closer, “Well, I suppose we’re both here for someone.”

Glancing around, you realize you just nearly blocked out all of the bustling around you two, practically hypnotized as you smell her sweet perfume, “I don’t mean to be rude about my someone but I’m over this party.”

Wanda nods knowingly, “I agree, something’s off. Is it the music for you?”

You grin, pressing your foot onto her stool footrest just as she uncrosses her legs, her knee pressing against yours, “Did your invitation come with a hotel room? We could go check out the amenities together. The stocked mini bar, sounds fun. Maybe the continental breakfast?”

She chuckles as her fingers trace mindlessly against your leg, “You are certainly more forward this evening.”

You shrug as you lean towards her and rest your forearms on your legs, “I don’t know. I feel like we can play the part for tonight? A raging party. Two strangers meet at a bar. That has Hallmark written all over it.”

Wanda’s laugh is loud against the music and your eyes squint with your smile, a heavy warmth filling your limbs.

As she rolls her eyes, you take hold of her slender fingers and gently turn one of her rings as she talks, “And you said breakfast? That’s still some time away. What could we possibly do to past the time?”

You feel her bewitching stare as your thumb just lightly strokes against her skin, your hand resting inside the slit of her dress. She feels just like you thought she would. Soft skin that felt cool to the touch and had you craving more and more.

“I think we can find a few things to do.”

The two of you left your full glasses on the bartop and found yourselves outside of the hotel room reserved under your name. Her lips pressed against yours, the warmth of her tongue massaging yours as you tried to urgently find the key card. Your fingers were tangled in her hair as hers gripped tightly against your shirt, untucking it in the middle of the hallway.

You felt the pressure of her hand guide down your body as it slipped into the pocket with your hand. As it slid out, you felt a hiss escape your throat as she bit down sharply on your lip. Opening your eyes to her playful stare, you catch a glimpse of the room key that she holds between her fingers.

“Having a little trouble?” She teases, sliding it into the slot with a coy glance.

As it clicks, you shove the door open as your fingers guide her zipper down her body. Pressing your lips against her neck sloppily you chuckle, “I can stop and retry it.”

“Don’t you dare,” she sighs out as you suck against her tender skin, leaving a reddened mark.

Sliding the soft fabric from her shoulders, you kiss every inch of skin that becomes exposed to you. Her fingers slowly work at unbuttoning your shirt as your lips guide themselves down her collarbone. As you breath out a heavy breath, you watch her body shiver as your lips press between the valley of her breasts. The dress falls completely to the floor as she slips out of her heels and pulls out your belt.

Gripping the back of her thighs tightly, you slowly pick her up as you never let your lips leave her soft skin. As her legs wrap around your waist, she leans back ever so slightly as your hands grip her waist tightly.

“Aren’t you strong?” She teases the achingly slow lift you just did, “But how’s your stamina?”

Holding her tightly, you slowly lower her down onto the mattress, her hair fanning out in every direction as you slip out of the rest of your clothes. Climbing onto the creaking mattress, you press your knee against her wet core as she gasps, her hands gripping tightly around your wrists. Kissing up her body, you softly whisper,

“I suppose we can find out.”

Your hands gently massage her breasts, coaxing a breathy moan from her lips as your lips explore her more of her body. Her impatience makes you chuckle lightly as she ruts her hips to try and find friction against your leg. A small whimper leaves her lips as you bite at her waist, climbing to her lips and smashing against them. Wanda’s fingers trail down your body as you slip yours beneath the waistband of her panties.

“Are we a little impatient tonight?” You whisper against her ear, running your fingers just on the inside of her thigh.

Wanda grabs your face and crashes her lips into you, pulling a sigh from you both. Her arms hug you closer as you grip the back of her neck tightly, your other fingers guiding themselves to her core. Feeling the wet warmth between her legs, you run your fingers through her folds slowly,

“Fuck, Wanda,” you mutter as you kiss along her jaw, “Those noises you make are music.”

You line your fingers up to her entrance and press into her slowly, her back arching as you listen to her rasping moan,

“Just like that,” you whisper, pressing your lips around her hardened nipples as you find the perfect rhythm to thrust your fingers. Curling your fingers as you beckon her, her hands grip onto you tightly, nails digging into your skin as the room fills with moans.

Adding another finger, she sucks in a tight breath but pulls you closer, “Right there, shit!” the words fall from her mouth a jumbled mess as you press the heel of your palm against her clit.

Her nails drag up your back as you guide wet kisses down her body once more, her breathing turning ragged and your heart pounding in your ears. As her fingers grip your hair tightly, you remove your fingers from her clenching walls. Wanda releases a whimper but gasps as you run your tongue up through her folds.

“Jesus,” she pants out as her thighs twitch next to you, your tongue exploring every inch of her and just teasing her clit with a flick of your tongue.

Pressing your fingers back into her, you press your tongue against that bundle of nerves. You feel her hands let go in a moment of blissful satisfaction. Your free hand slides up, intertwining your fingers together as you pin her hand against the mattress.

“God, you taste as good as you look,” you say, thrusting your fingers faster inside of her and pushing her closer to the edge.

If she wasn’t already making noise, she became a whimpering mess as you sucked against her clit. The hand you hold grips so tightly around yours, you swear that you heard a crack, but you didn’t relent.

As her sweating body arches into the air, her shaking thighs clenching so tightly around you as her walls tighten around your fingers, you press your fingers deeply. Pressing a hard lick against her clit, Wanda’s mouth fell open,

“Shit!” She swears out into the night as she falls over the edge, pleasure washing over her face as her body twitches through the waves.

Once you hear her softly sigh and her head fall back onto the bed, you press a soft kiss against her thigh. Carefully, you slide your fingers from her, cleaning them with a loud pop of your lips. Wanda's hand weakly smacks your shoulder at the crudeness but you hear her quiet chuckle once more. Kissing your way up her body, you wrap your arms behind her sweaty back and press a kiss into the depression at the bottom of her neck.

Wanda cups your face gently. Pressing a soft kiss upon your lips, more passionate and thoughtful than the feral kisses you shared earlier.

“What was that about stamina?” You question playfully, her face resting into the crook of your neck.

She breathes into your neck slowly, “There’s such a thing as a second wind.”

Kissing below your chin, you look down at her with a smile. Wanda’s fingers trace your back with the lightest touch. Watching her eyes flutter close, you press against those soft lips again.

In this moment, you would’ve never guessed this was the beginning of what was meant to be the rest of your life. The love of your life was in your arms, sharing kiss after kiss with you. The months ahead would continue to prove it. The realization that you were on the same team. The apprehension that wrapped around your neck when you realized just who you were falling for. The truths you knew had to be said but you were a coward.

And a coward does what a coward does. They run. A two year mission and your name signed on the dotted line. Wanda begged you to stay but you were the biggest fool there was. The truth would come out and you didn’t want to be around when it happened.

It was selfish.

It was idiotic.

Yet you convinced yourself it was for the best. She would never want to be with someone who worked for Hydra. Someone who once held their kill switch. Someone who had a front row seat of her brother dying.

Right?

___________________ Part 2

#wanda #wanda maximoff #wanda marvel #wanda x reader #wanda fluff #wanda smut #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda fanfic #wanda maximoff fluff #wanda maximoff smut #wanda imagine #wanda x you #wanda mcu #marvel fan fiction #wanda x y/n #minors dni #minors look away #18+

[indiegamesofcolor]

[I.D.: A gifset containing four gifs of the upcoming game Tiny Witch. 

Gif 1 shows customers approaching the player’s counter. The player is seen putting ingredients into an activity station. 

Gif 2 shows a cauldron from one of the activity stations firing a blue spell that damages the player.

Gif 3 shows the player at different activity stations filling orders. The player briefly looks at their recipe book and flips through the pages.

Gif 4 shows a customer firing a spell at the player after being dissatisfied with the service.

end I.D.]

Tiny Witch is a management game about running a magical store that creates minions! Keep up with orders placed by dungeon masters by activating spells and recipes. Satisfy your customers’ requests or suffer the consequences! 

Set to release in 2022 for Windows. Free demo is out now

Developed by Creative Hand, a studio located in São Paulo, Brazil. They are a small team of four who focus on creating premium pixel art games in the Game Maker Studio 2 engine.

#arcade #fantasy #pixel art #crafting #video games #indie games #simulation #free demo #windows games #management #Brazilian devs #latine devs #magic #afro latine devs #black devs #flashing gif #flashing #flashing image

[behindheremeraldeyes]

damirae week 2021 tuesday, May 4th - enemies to lovers & dark fantasy/ fairytale

title: bewitched

summary: “There’s a sly and satisfied smirk playing on her lips, and for a moment, he knows she has bewitched him, body and soul. This girl— this demon— is going to be his downfall. " Ao3 // ffnet

.

.

.

It is a moonless night when the most powerful members of the League of Assassins are gathered in the catacombs of the sacred city of Eth Alth’eban. There are at least 20 men wearing dark-green hoods to cover their faces, each holding a lit candle in order to provide just the minimum luminosity for the ceremony that is about to take place. Their leader, Damian Al’Ghul, stands straight as he holds his powerful countenance, his emerald eyes never leaving the deteriorated book in his hands. A conjuring circle has been drawn with the ancient sand of the white desert, and at this moment, all the preparations have been concluded.

At last, the time has come. After spending years studying the dark arts and reading countless manuscripts on the matter, Damian is finally ready to take the next step towards a prosperous future. He is about to do what his predecessors never had the guts to, and with this action, a new era for the League is about to begin. He will make his grandfather proud by rewriting the history of their organization. He will be respected and his name, finally, immortalized.

“From hell, I, Damian Al’Ghul summon thou. Break the gates, unleash thy power and come forward. Step into this world now that the shadows cover this land. Be mine, demon, and my heart shall be yours for eternity.” He closes the book, handling it to one of the servants standing next to him. His hand reaches for the dagger in his belt, and in a fraction of a second, he tears the skin of his right hand. Red blood oozes from the sash and he lets it drip over the circle, tinging the white sand into a bright crimson. “Azarath Metrion Zinthos.”

The last words come as a whisper and a profound silence envelops the room. A couple of seconds pass, and though he can practically touch the thick anxiety of his subordinates around him, there’s no room for hesitation in his core. His pulse suddenly increases and it’s as if he can feel his heart constricting inside his ribcage. It’s not painful, not in the least. In fact, it gives him a feeling of fulfillment, and as he embraces this feeling, the ground beneath his feet starts to shake.

A dust of wind invades the catacombs, the lights of a few candles fading in consequence. Suddenly, an ominous fog swirls inside the circle, delicate at first, but quickly escalating into a dark vortex. Breathing gets harder, as if all the oxygen is quickly vanishing, and from the corner of his eyes, he can see some of the elder man falling on their knees, holding their throats and gasping for air. He doesn’t move, though. He can’t, for his feet are suddenly too heavy and something tells him he shouldn’t move a single muscle.

So he doesn’t. He stands his ground for what feels like an eternity, but eventually, the turmoil ceases and a dark sphere appears over the circle, floating steadily. His ears capture the sound of his men recovering, and some even take a step closer to him, as if to offer their prince some support. They have their blades ready, but Damian knows they won’t do anything unless he commands them to. There’s no need for violence. At least not yet.

After almost a full minute, the orb then dissolves and a small figure is now kneeled on the floor, the runes of the circle now shinning with a purple aura. His men are left in pure awe at the scene in front of them, but Damian doesn’t let those feelings take over him. His eyes are slowly studying the figure, and it doesn’t take long for him to realize the demon he has summoned has a human form— the form of a woman, apparently.

Her head is lowered, dark hair falling forward. She’s naked, her bare skin pale as the finest porcelain and slim curves outlining her figure. Her arms are wrapped across her chest in a protective way, and he is quick to notice the way she’s shivering. She’s cold, he thinks. It’s mid winter here, and perhaps, she must still be used to the warmer temperatures of hell.

“Bring me a source of fire. Now.” He orders, and his subordinates don’t question, quickly lighting a brazier. In a swift move, then, Damian unbuttons the cape that falls over his shoulders and wraps it around her. He’s crouched now, his feet invading the circle and his face just a few inches away from hers. When he reaches out for her now covered shoulder, she trembles under his touch. His eyes squint a bit, and slowly, he watches as she finally lifts her face.

Their eyes are connected now. His emeralds and her amethyst clashing and he can’t find it in himself to look away. She’s enticing, seductive, even. Her eyes are as deep as autumn’s starry skies, and her rosy lips are slowly parting as she studies his expression. There’s a red crystal on her forehead, and it’s as if flames are dancing inside of it.

Damian is mesmerized by her ethereal beauty. She’s probably the most beautiful creature he has ever seen, and for a moment, her pure looks make him forget that she is, in fact, a demon. A demon he has summoned to help him achieve his goals.

Once realization strikes him back, he blinks and breaks eye contact. He stands up, his imposing figure now towering over her body as he reaches out, offering his hand to help her stand. At first, her eyes are just staring at him, but eventually, she accepts his gesture and he can properly feel her icy touch clashing against his warm skin. Though her legs are still shaky, she manages to stand up, and as expected, she’s smaller than him. She lets go of his hand once she’s confident enough to stand alone, and though her eyes were only filled with confusion until this point, now, he can see a new flame behind her irises.

She’s examining her surroundings now, and he wonders if she’s either planning a way to escape or to kill all of them— for their sake, he hopes it’s not the latter. The demoness takes a deep breath, then, and her attention returns to him.

“So you’re the one who’s summoned me.” Her voice is low, almost velvety, and he senses an inch of growing confidence in it.

“Yes.” He confirms. “You will help me achieve my goals.” His eyes are determined as those words roll out of his tongue, and that determination evokes a smirk on her lips.

“Oh, is that so? How can you be so sure of that? Tell me what’s stopping me from killing you and all of your men?”

The lack of hesitation in her voice causes a turmoil in his men, and they were quick to unsheathe their blades. Rage fills their hearts, and their blood-thirst is almost palpable now.

“Just say the word, your majesty.” One of them says, and it’s clear that they only need the minimum approval from Damian to slit her throat.

“Is this your pathetic excuse for backup?” She huffs, not bothering to spare them a single glance. They’re growing more irritated, but she pays them no mind. ”I see why you needed a demon, then.”

“You devil creature! How dare yo— “

“Enough.” He says, firmly, with a reprimanding tone towards his men. If anything, he won’t let them fall for her tricky games so easily. He’s glaring at her now, yet she doesn’t seem intimidated by him in the least. “If you wanted us dead, you would’ve done it by now.”

“Very astute, your majesty.” She mocks, finally turning her amethyst orbs to his men. “At ease, gentlemen. No one needs to die here tonight. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like to speak alone with you, Damian Al’Ghul.”

“Very well.” He turns to his men. “You can leave now.”

“What?! Master Damian, we shouldn’t have done this. We can just kill her and get back to the way we were before. We can—“

“Don’t you dare finish this sentence, sergeant.” He speaks, harshly. “I forbid you or anyone else in this facility to bring her any harm. Have I made myself clear?” There’s a screaming silence after his words, but eventually, his men bow their heads in acceptance. Hands are clenched into tight fists, and at last, her smirk fades from her face. For that, Damian is thankful.

In less than a second, all the men surrounding them leave the room. The light from the lit fire outlines their silhouettes as they now stand face to face. She’s still wrapped around his green and golden cape, and there’s a serious expression decorating her features now.

“So, Damian…” She starts, squinting her eyes in defiance. With her powers, the magic book he’s used to conjure the spells comes floating to her hands, and she’s quick to start flipping through its dusty pages. “You might be aware of this already, but you have used a pretty powerful grimoire to summon a demon like me. The mage who wrote this spells certainly knew what he was doing, for he’s found a way to turn the tables against us, evil creatures.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we can’t just fool you, humans, into doing whatever we want like we’ve been doing for the past centuries.” She smirks. “At least not so easily anymore. With the spells in this book, giving you my real name or stuff like that makes absolutely no difference.”

“And what is it? Your name, I mean.”

Her eyes stare at him for a while, and though she takes a couple of seconds to try and read him, eventually, she gives in. “Raven. You can call me Raven.”

“Raven.” He tests her name in his own voice, and unconsciously, he finds himself enjoying the way it rolls out of his tongue. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Pleasure is all mine.” She replies, finally closing the book with a loud noise. “Well, you’ve summoned me from the depths of hell, Damian. You don’t need to tell me your reasons for it, but please, do tell me, what is it that you want me to do? How can I serve you?”

He nods at her, and even if Damian knows better than to simply trust a demon, he believes she’s being genuine. Though there are still a lot of things he has yet to learn about dark magic, he knows that the book he’s used gives him the higher ground against her. There are taming spells there that can subdue her to his wills, and if anything, she’s not allowed to kill him. They’re bound together for as long as he wants to, and giving her his heart in exchange for that felt quite acceptable.

They’re each holding the strings of each other’s lives, and with that, he believes they will find balance.

“I want what all the humans in my position want, Raven. I want enough power to protect my man and the things we stand for. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Nothing more, huh?” Her brows quirk, and she takes a few steps closer to him. Her eyes are on his, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t spot a certain curiosity in her demeanor. “Don’t you want to rule the world, Damian? Don’t you want to be feared by nations and create your own empire?”

“No.” He says, promptly. “A true leader should not be feared, but respected.”

“How very honorable for a human.” She teases, finally returning the book to him. “But this is none of my business. I’m in no position to defy your wishes. I’m bound to consent if that’s what you want.”

She turns away from him, then, and he watches as his cape dances around her slim legs. She stretches her arms and neck, and that’s when he reminds himself that, even if she’s a creature from hell, Raven still has her own wishes and desires. They’ve made a contract, and even if the odds are in his favor, there must be something in it for her, too. He refuses to believe that a human heart is enough to pay for what could be a life of servitude.

The leader of the Assassins takes a deep breath, then, as he decides to venture unexplored territory. His intentions are noble— at least he thinks they are— and he doesn’t hesitate before speaking. “And what is it that you want, Raven?”

“Me?” She asks, curiosity lacing her voice. She turns to face him once more, and he catches a glimpse of interest in her amethyst eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I’m asking you what is it that you want. What will you get from helping me?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She asks, her tongue instinctively running across her lower lip. “I’ll be finally free, Damian.”

“Free?” He arcs his brows as he tries to understand her words. “Can you really be free while bounded to a human?”

“You humans have a very idealistic sense of freedom. We are bound together, that’s true, but that doesn’t mean you’re taking away my freedom. It’s quite the opposite, in fact.”

“How so?”

“You took me away from hell, Damian. And though it might not be the worst place for us, demons, it’s still pretty hard not to lose control when all of those suffering souls are screaming inside your head.” She smiles, weakly, but genuinely. “Now that I’m only connected to you, it’s easier to think straight. My mind isn’t crowded anymore, and that alone sets me free. If you are to put me in a cage for the rest of your life, so be it. At least I will some peace.”

His lips go agape after her words, and he feels his heart skipping a beat. Though he initially believed to know enough about demons due to his previous studies, Damian now knows that there’s a lot more about them he has yet to understand. They’re creatures with thoughts and emotions, and some of them might still carry some traces of humanity. Though malice and wickedness might prevail in their core, perhaps— just perhaps— some of them can come to comprehend feelings such as mercy and happiness.

Perhaps, together, they can eventually comprehend the meaning of love.

The heart inside his chest, though no longer his, beats faster as his eyes continue to stare at her. A sense of dignity and justice takes over him, and before he knows it, his hand is already placed over her shoulder. His touch is tender, and he watches as bewilderment spreads around her face. “You won’t be trapped in a cage, Raven. I want you to rule by my side, and we will stand together against whatever might come for us. I will give you anything you might desire. I will keep you safe.”

As his words sink in, a slow smile takes over her lips, and she uses her right hand to remove his from her shoulder. “A human protecting a demon… How amusing.” Her small fingers are now holding his, and he notices how foreign her touch feels. Still, she’s gentle. “Not trapping a demon in a cage, huh… You might regret this decision later, Damian.”

“I won’t.” He nods, his grip on her fingers tightening. “You will be free by my side. I give you my word.”

His promises come out almost as a whisper, and he watches as her expression, though still very strict, shows signs of excitement. Her amethyst eyes seem to shine brighter now, and her thin lips are slowly turning upwards. Right now, Damian is captivated by her genuine beauty and he can’t control the sudden desire to have her that has grown inside of him. Perhaps it’s part of the original contract or even a curse she’s putting on him. Whatever it is, he can’t find it in himself to fight against this urge.

Raven blinks one more time, and slowly, her hand slides from his and she’s now cupping his cheek. Her thumb slides across his olive skin, and he can’t help but allow the weight of his head to rest over her palm. Their eyes are connected and he can feel a soft breeze coming from her slightly parted lips. She’s incredibly close now. So close that if he leans in, his lips might brush hers. The thought of kissing her crosses his mind, and though it might seem too misplaced, it’s not completely absurd.

She’s the owner of his heart, after all. Though the meaning of it might not be the same for her, he is still human. He is still a man.

“Raven, I—“

“Shh…” She silences him, her eyes now only half opened. “Don’t say anything you might regret later.”

“I— “

Before he can even finish his words, Raven is the one who closes the gap between them. Her lips are pressed firmly against his in a soft and chaste kiss, and his body is quick to respond to her action. His arm slowly snakes around her small body, bringing her closer so they can deepen the kiss. Damian can feel the curves of her bare breasts against his chest and he can feel his body warming up at her touch.

Their tongues brush softly against one another, and once he adds a little roughness to the kiss, he’s able to elicit a soft moan from the depths of her throat. She responds to him promptly, their lips moving in perfect synchrony. Though it might not be natural for two extremely different creatures to engage in such actions, the desire running through his veins seems to be controlling his movements, and he doesn’t think he has the strength to break free.

His mind is revolving around her right now, and though it might feel a little clouded, Damian doesn’t think he has ever felt more powerful or sane in his entire life. He can barely feel his own heart beating anymore, but the power that now courses through his body is making him feel incredibly alive.

What is she doing to him? He doesn’t know, not really. However, he doesn’t really care about it right now.

He’s entranced by her, and there’s no turning back anymore. At least not until his heart stops beating.

His need for air forces him to retreat momentarily, their foreheads resting against one another. His lungs are desperate for fresh air, and judging by the way her ribcage is moving fast, he assumes she’s just as needy.

“What have you done to me?” He asks, still breathless. The turmoil inside his body seems to be fading, and at last, he can think straight again.

“Nothing your heart didn’t wish for, Damian.” Raven answers, sliding her hand across his chest, until it’s placed over his heart. She can feel it beating against her palm, and he notices how focused she seems. There’s a sly and satisfied smirk playing on her lips, and for a moment, he knows she has bewitched him, body and soul. This girl— this demon— is going to be his downfall.

And the worst part is that he’s looking forward to it.

fin.

----------

a/n: day 2 and here we are! Ngl, I had this idea while watching a weird show and I’m pretty happy with the result. Both Raven and Damian are such amazing characters to play with, and I think it’s our duty as shippers to explore them and their love. Well, what did you think? Hope you’ve enjoyed it! Thank you for reading it, and see ya!

#damirae #damirae week 2021 #demonbirds #damian x raven #damian wayne & raven #mydamiraefics

[sarasa-cat]

Not entirely certain why although I do have a short list of WHYs

But

Holy shit. I have been hit with an extreme embodiment of Marie Kondo’s spirit of “All of this must go now. So empty space can make room for joy.”

Boxing up an carting out almost 2 decades of my prior (prior to 2015) career plus lots of other stuff from that time. Just begone. Going going gone.

FFS I am never going to need to prove that I received certain scores while teaching uni lectures, nor do I need two walls of xeroxed readings and papers and articles and all of this teaching material (including boxes of supplies for demos and in class activities) and research materials from too long ago. Like fuck no begone. Data begone. Data analysis begone. Textbooks foisted on me by publishers (bc they want me to assign that book so they make $$) begone. And textbooks I taught from, 80% can go. (But the really cool statistical and applied maths monographs are joy incarnate so they can most definitely stay. Same with “the ethnographic interview” and a few good qual methods books. I like them and who knows what uses I may or may not use that knowledge for in the future. Interactive Media Art? Fiction? Nonfiction? Consulting? Or even Gifting to others?)

Not even bothering to look through the stacks of papers beyond a minor fast flip. Just into recycling boxes and carting off.

I am covered in dust and scratches and paper cuts but ffs the last mountain of crap is leaving my office/art studio this week. And this place will be 100% set up in its new form and format within a week (bc I am busy with hard deadline responsibilities this week and weekend and next week too).

[yellowocaballero]

written in 2 hours for $5

my friend: so, in your story, you say that Jon went to see a doctor who DIDN’T diagnose him with anything, despite him thinking all of his employees were trying to kill him...I will give you $5 to write this conversation

me: what’s your venmo.

under a readmore as to not traumatize Bukowski with sloppy depictions of therapy.

                Okay, that ordeal was over with. Jon hated health services. He never went to the doctor if he could help it. It was easy to avoid it, since Elias gave as little healthcare as physically possible, and Jon was of the personal opinion that he never got sick, anyway. Sickness was a state of mind, and Jon’s mind was not in that state. What was a cold but your body temporarily acting funny before going back to normal? Absolutely nothing, no matter what Martin wrung his hands and insisted about. If Jon got the flu, he threw up in the toilet and then went back to work. RIP to the influenza virus but he was different.

                Jon sat anxiously in the waiting room of the counseling clinic, struggling to recall if his mother was depressed or not.

                Like, Jon would personally be very depressed, if he had given birth to Jon. He hesitantly wrote it in, then scratched it out, then scowled at the very nuclear family centric medical history section of the patient chart, then went through the usual rigamarole of feeling self-pity over being an orphan. Finally, he settled on just writing in a big question mark in the mother and father sections. He wrote into the side that his Grandfather and two of his Uncles had schizophrenia, which had to be useful in some sort of way.

                Okay, that ordeal was over with. Jon hated health services. He never went to the doctor if he could help it. It was easy to avoid it, since Elias gave as little healthcare as physically possible, and Jon was of the personal opinion that he never got sick, anyway. Sickness was a state of mind, and Jon’s mind was not in that state. What was a cold but your body temporarily acting funny before going back to normal? Absolutely nothing, no matter what Martin wrung his hands and insisted about. If Jon got the flu, he threw up in the toilet and then went back to work. RIP to the influenza virus but he was different.

                The waiting room for the clinic wasn’t empty, even if that would have made Jon feel better. A tired looking Hispanic woman clutching her purse sat on one couch, an elderly man clutching a cane sitting in an armchair with his wife browsing a magazine beside him. Boring, banal, bothersome. Jon wasn’t like these losers. He wasn’t a weak-willed person who…accused all of his coworkers of murder plots…to the extent where one of his subordinates threatened him into going to a therapist. That hadn’t happened. To him.

                For the record, it wouldn’t have worked if Martin hadn’t been so good at disguising what a manipulative bastard he was. Jon didn’t know people could make their eyes that big. Or that people could be so talented at gathering evidence of workplace harassment, enough that even Elias would be forced to exact some sort of disciplinary action against him. Had Martin always been so terrifying? His ranking on the ‘Possibly Wants To Kill Me’ scale jumped a few notches, but was forced to drop down a few notches due to Jon admitting that someone who wanted to kill him probably wouldn’t blackmail him into therapy.

                Probably.

                He briefly detailed his diagnostic history (none), detailed his list of previous surgeries and health conditions (none, save the anemia in uni), and briefly gave a list of childhood trauma (none that anyone would believe, although he found himself hesitantly writing down ‘Foster system, parental incarceration, orphaned’, as if that was a real trauma or something instead of stuff that just happened to him that had no effect on his brain whatsoever).

                He finally got to the difficult section, the one that always tripped him up and made him sweat. He breezed through the demo questions (Black, male last time he checked, younger than he looked) but stared for an uncomfortably long time at the sexuality questions. His pen hovered over heterosexual, but his Mental Georgie (meaner than the actual Georgie) yelled at him until his pen hovered over bisexual instead. But that wasn’t quite right either, was it? Bad memories of scrolling desperately and shamefully through AVEN at 2am last year flashed through his mind, but asexual wasn’t on the list. He marked in bisexual, although he didn’t think it counted if he’d never had any…relations with male presenting people, although it didn’t quite fit.

                Under alcohol use he very proudly put none, feeling both smug and embarrassed over being smug over it. Under drug use he also was proud to put none. Then it asked for his history and, like, whatever. He hated this list. It sucked. Jon didn’t like admitting to the coke he only did three times. Or was it four? That he could remember.

                Under the ‘Have you ever been hospitalized’ question he put yes, then he remembered that they had technically diagnosed him with alcoholism and depression so he had to go back and put that down in his diagnoses, then he had to put down that he had attempted suicide a few times. Jon felt uncomfortable about nameless strangers knowing this, when he had never told anybody and had never been planning on it. It was a secret he would take to his grave, but he was telling this piece of paper, apparently. Hopefully nobody looked at this.

                Under the section for ‘why he came in’, Jon decided honestly was the best policy. He wrote down carefully, in precise letters, ‘I do not need to come in but my subordinate (who may be plotting murder against me) blackmailed me into it’. There. Honesty was the best policy.

                Finally the accursed intake form was over, Jon was able to hand it to the nurse he suddenly imagined looked very judgmental, and he was able to flip aimlessly through the three year old magazines on the glass tabletop flanking a piece of calming abstract art. He would never admit it to literally anybody in his life, but he enjoyed the voyeurism of celebrity gossip. He loved learning things about people that were supposed to be private, that nobody was supposed to know. It wasn’t a real secret if he learned it off TMZ, but it felt like one, and that was good enough. It was none of his business who was dating who or who had cheated on who, but that was part of the fun. Jon’s thirst for knowledge was absolute. But, still, nobody could ever know about this. Georgie had laughed at him for a week when she found out.

                Still, the magazine was wrong. The pop star wasn’t cheating on her boyfriend with her bodyguard. She was cheating on her boyfriend with her college roommate. Jon didn’t remember exactly where he had read it, but he knew it was true. Must have caught it on a reddit thread or something. Jon snorted. They should really polish up on their fact checking.

                After what felt like hours, but in fact was twenty-two minutes and forty seconds exactly, the nurse called Jon in. They took his height (still too tall), took his weight (ugh….), and took his blood pressure, which seemed to alarm the nurse, who asked him if he had a family history of hypertension. He just explained that his job was very high stress.

                “Ah,” the nurse said, and made a note on his clipboard.

                “The previous holder of my position was murdered,” Jon said helpfully, “and I think one of my employees did it. Either that or my boss. That, or various supernatural entities, but generally I’ve been doing a pretty good job of holding those off.”

                “That’s so interesting,” the nurse said, making another note on the clipboard.

                Then he was directed into the actual therapist’s office. Not his therapist, or at least he didn’t think so – the way they explained it to him, and the way the twenty internet sites he’d compulsively researched said it worked, was that he would get an intake with a trainee, who would then refer him to a therapist that worked for him in the building. It made sense, although very little about this entire process really did. Jon hated doctors. What were therapists, but doctors who made less sense, and did not respect science?

                The intake therapist’s office was overly calming. There was an incense diffuser in the corner, a tea station set up in another corner, and a comfortable looking couch facing a chair. There was a coffee table in the center filled with fidget toys and candy, along with some stuffed animals and other comfort items with some books, and Jon awkwardly shook the hand of the young woman who opened the door for him and sat down on the far corner of the couch.

                She introduced herself as Angela and had a bright white smile. Jon wondered if she had ever killed anybody. Her hair was glossy and black, she seemed to be Hispanic or thereabouts, and exuded a trustworthy and competent yet friendly air. Jon did not trust her.

                “So, Jon,” Angela said, once they both settled down. “I’m just going to give you a quick run-down of this process. I’ll interview you based on your intake form, we’ll come up with a case formulation, and I’ll refer you to a therapist with our clinic who can help you out. You indicated that this is your first time seeing a counselor?”

                “Uh, yes.” Jon clasped his hands, then his knees, then sat up very straight, then slouched. He now understood why the fidget toys were there. “But I really don’t want to see a therapist. I just told someone I’d come in here, so here I am. I can leave right after this.”

                “Who asked you to come in?”

                “Martin. Uh. My employee.”

                She made a note in her notebook. “Does he only know you from work?”

                “Yes.”

                “So your employees have been noticing some behavior from you at work that lead them to ask you to come?” Angela asked delicately.

                “Uh. Yeah.”

                “What kind of behavior?”

                Well, sure, make him think about it. Jon clenched his trousers a little. “I’ve been…well, according to Tim, I’ve been stalking them a bit. Which, perhaps, from a certain point of view, I’m willing to admit to. Also going through their desks. Some verbal accusations. Apparently, I’ve been difficult to work with lately.”

                Scribble scribble scribble. “What sort of accusations?”

                “Someone’s trying to kill me,” Jon said firmly. “I’m just trying to find out who. I’m exploring every option. Nobody is above suspicion. I know it seems…I know it doesn’t seem very usual, but that’s the situation.”

                “Have you talked to the police?”

                God, has he ever. “They’re willing to collaborate with me, but there’s only so much they can do,” Jon said seriously. Even if they had confidentiality, which they had explained to him as he came in, he could hardly admit to Basira doing something illegal for him. “But we are working on it together. At least some officers on the force take murder investigations seriously.”

                “Alright. If you don’t mind, I’m going to refer back to some questions that we asked you on the sheet. Just a little more detail on them.” Angela looked down at what he had to assume was a print-out of his answers on the intake questionnaire. “It says here that you have a family history of schizophrenia?”

                “Yeah,” Jon said blankly, “what does that have to do with anything?”

                She looked further down the list. “And…a history of alcoholism and drug abuse?”

                “Yes, technically.”

                “Alright.” She leaned backwards and opened a file cabinet, rifling through it before withdrawing a piece of paper and passing it to Jon. Jon hesitantly took it, scanning the paper. “Can you fill this out for me quickly, please?”

                Jon read the questions.

                Do you ever hear or see things that others cannot?

                Well, yes, Jon experienced many supernatural phenomena that others could not perceive. He checked off yes.

                Do you ever struggle to trust that what you are thinking is real?

                Frequently. He just knew his mind was being manipulated by the mysterious Watcher. Plus there was that business with Sasha. Something’s off about her.

                Do you ever get the sense that others are controlling your thoughts and emotions?

                That occurred in dozens of Statements, plus his own life. Yes.

                Do you struggle to keep up with daily living tasks?

                Tim did tell him that he didn’t shower enough…

                Do you feel that you have powers that others cannot understand or appreciate?

                Jon thought blankly of all those times that he asked people questions and they almost…had to answer. He checked yes for that too.

                Etc, etc, etc.

                Jon looked up from this test. “Are you under the impression I’m schizophrenic?”

                “I can’t make a diagnosis yet,” the therapist said delicately. “Why don’t we talk after you finish the screening.”

                Jon silently passed it back to her, after checking yes on almost everything. She scanned it quickly.

                “Hm.”

                “Look,” Jon said awkwardly, knowing that this probably looked bad, “I know that I may come off as a paranoid lunatic, but the supernatural is out there and is targeting me personally. I think I may work for it, honestly? Do you ever feel like an accountant for evil in your day to day life, or is that just me?” Jon paused a beat, and found that his hands were shaking. He was scared. Why was he scared? “I always feel something watching me. Something – something in the walls. I’m sitting at my desk, it’s late at night, and nobody’s around, but sometimes when I do my work…I feel something looking over my shoulder. It hates me. It wants to hurt me. I don’t know why I know it, I just do. Something invisible in the walls is looking at me, and nobody believes me when I say it’s there but I know it is.” He found himself speaking faster, almost as if he was begging her to understand. “When you look at a – at this couch, you know it’s there, right? How would you feel if everybody started telling you that it wasn’t there? That what your eyes and ears and body was telling you was fake? You’d feel like it was everybody else who was crazy, not you. Even if your eyes were closed, if you reached out your hand you could feel it. No matter what you might tell yourself, or what other people might tell you, it’s real. It’s there. You can’t deny it. I’m not crazy. It’s there. Something is watching me. You don’t – you don’t have to believe me. But I’m right. And you’re wrong, if you think it’s not.”

                Angela stared at him.

                Then she stood up, clutching her mobile. Jon realized for the first time that it was ringing. “I’ll be right back.”

                She left the room, holding the phone to her ear. Jon felt it was somewhat unprofessional for a therapist to walk out in the middle of a session for a phone call. Maybe it was important? Her husband was in the hospital or something? It was none of his business.

                Jon tapped his toes. Stared at the wall. There was a poster with a sloth on it that said ‘Hang In There!’. He was hanging in there, all right.

                He wondered if he was crazy. If it even mattered.

                Jon had always had nobody but himself to rely on. Well, maybe Georgie, once upon a time, but he had burned that bridge. At the end of the day, it had always been him. In that gutter where he had almost drowned in his own vomit, it had just been him.

                If he couldn’t trust his own mind, who could he trust? If even his own faculties left him, he had nothing. No friends, no family, no support. Just him. If Jon lost his mind, if he went completely crazy, then there was nobody to pick up the pieces ever again. For the first time since coming in, Jon found himself scared. Would he have to take medication? Would it make him dumb? Jon would rather be crazy then dumb.

                The door opened, and Angela returned. But there was something just a little different about her, something Jon picked up immediately. Her eyes were – almost glassy, almost not present. She had been such an attentive, active listener before, but now she seemed far away. Her gait was a little stiffer than it had been previously.

                “Bad news?” Jon breached awkwardly.

                “Nothing to worry about,” Angela smiled. But it didn’t reach her eyes. How strange. She sat back down in her chair, posture perfect and prim. “Well, I took a look at your sheet, and I have some good news for you.”

                “You – you do?” Jon asked, thrown off. Doctors never had good news for him. They always seemed to think he was a medical freak of nature who was alive only through an act of spite against god.

                “Of course. You don’t seem to have any kind of mental illness. Honestly, I just think your problem is that you’re stressed at work.”

                “I – so you don’t think I’m schizophrenic? Despite answering yes to almost every question on that test? And having family members with schizophrenia? And being a black male in my late twenties, the highest risk group?”

                “Yes.” Angela smiled prettily at him. “I think it’s just a matter of adjustment. You’re a transitionary phase in your life, Jon. You’re moving from one role to another. I think all you have to do is accept your new role in life, and your problems will sort themselves out.”

                “I – yes. Yes, of course.” It was like a huge weight had been taken off his chest. Jon felt so relieved. Nothing was wrong with him. His mind was still his own. He wasn’t crazy! “You’re right. I’m just stressed. Thank you so much, doctor. I feel a lot better about this now. I knew Martin was just overreacting.”

                “Martin’s always overreacting!” Angela laughed. She stood up from her chair, clearly signifying the interview was over despite him only being there for less than ten minutes. “Have a great day, Jon. You deserve it.”

                “Thanks, doctor. I promise I’ll work on – just calming down a bit. Wow. What a relief.” Jon stood up too, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers before shaking her hand. “I knew I wasn’t crazy.”

                “What’s crazy,” Angela said, “but a state of mind? The world is already so bizarre and usual, Jon, it’s strangest to be sane.”

                “I – okay?”

                Jon left the doctor’s appointment feeling very good about everything. Maybe the doctor’s had been a good idea. He would have to thank Martin.

                Wow. Now that was a crazy thought. Thanking Martin! Hah!

                Jon went home, feeling very good about his life and his trajectory in it.

                For the very last time.

#takes place in bbc verse but can be read independently if you want #actually secretly contains spoilers for that story but you can't really tell #tma #the magnus archives fanfiction #my writing #the magnus archives

[gwilymz]

As It Began

Brian May x Fem!Reader

Summary: Brian is twenty-three and working at earning his PhD when he meets you--coy and effortlessly beautiful--in an elective literature course. He’s infatuated by your inattentiveness to him, and he has never wanted anybody or anything more than he wants you.

Word Count: ...12,129.... (i said she was long)

Warnings: Pining, angst, sadness, lust, flirting, (kind of) cheating, filthy sex (unprotected, mutual masturbation, oral) --she has everything

The last bit of summer was dwindling as the days became shorter, the sun seeming to extinguish itself perpetually before nine. Brian looked through his window, down upon the streets of London as yellow raincoats and soggy boots sloshed through glassy rain, the city lights haloed upon grease-slicked streets. He had to focus extra hard to see anything else than his quite bemused-looking reflection, glaring through the cold window as if his sharp nose was pressed against a personal black mirror, and not his bedroom window, where rain was slapping against the glass with such force it made him wince--he got jumpy at night.

But nine was barely night; Brian had made do with the sunken bags which hung under his eyes like a speckled nest where his sleeplessness gathered into shades of pinks and purples, luckily barely visible from his freckled tan, deep from the sunny breezes in Tenerife which kissed his cheeks, cascaded down his languid body.

He’d spent the summer on the humid, lush fields in Tenerife, stammering through Spanish and squinting through poorly-assembled lenses and telescopes borrowed from the university--that the department only let him have after filling his ears with passive threats. They knew Brian would never disrespect their property; he couldn’t disrespect anything if he tried.  

And now, his hands were dry from that quintessentially summer sun as he traced the rain droplets that trembled from the slope of the shingled roof, wishing he could feel the water seep into his pores, so he could think about anything else, other than the oppressing anxiety of his next journey that would surely immortalize those sunken eyes of his. He was going to start his studies for his PhD the next day, his father’s urging. And while of course Brian wanted to continue his studies as well, his stomach felt tightly-wound and his fingers trembled like the rain on the window as he thought about the work, the classes, the time he would have to inevitably spend on school. He was lucky enough to have received a full scholarship for his PhD, but left the endeavor feeling more forced upon him than his father’s dreams of him did. His work at his undergraduate studies was impeccable; he received almost perfect marks and he spent the weekends teetering between two very antithetical sides of himself. One weekend Brian would be sat on a rooftop with his college friends, their hair mussed from the mid-summer’s breeze, stringy from the wind pulling the strands apart as they quarreled about angular measurements and accuracy. And the next weekend he’d have eyeshadow firmly packed onto puffy eyelids as he tried to maneuver his bony hands over his guitar, his flowy sleeves like wings which seemed to take him to a more natural state of himself, where the expectations for him weren’t so serious.

His eyes began to flutter shut, the London traffic becoming a sort of lullaby for him as he laid down on his bed, which sat against the window. His sheets were crisp and cold, and his teeth chattered as he pulled a fleece blanket of his over him, up to his shoulders. He leaned over to his bedside table and fiddled with his alarm clock, his white nail polish glowing by the yellow street lights which gleamed through the window beside him. He set the clock for 8:30 AM precisely; his elective literary studies class beginning an hour later.

__

“Brian, would you turn the fucking alarm off?” Roger rattled the doorknob before turning it swiftly and flipping the light switch on and off, on and off.

Brian groaned, pulling his flattened pillow over his face, his hair sloppy from sleep. “What are you talking about, Roger?”

“Your bloody alarm has been blaring for almost half an hour; you woke us all up, we thought we were going crazy!” Roger yanked the cord of the clock, sighing in relief as the sharp ringing finally stopped echoing through his ears.

“Half an hour?” Brian sat up, rubbing his eyes. He did the math quickly, despite remaining half asleep. “Shit!” He thrust himself out of bed, his comforter promptly falling to the wooden floors as he realized class started in less than thirty minutes.

“My alarm was going off for half an hour and you never bothered to wake me?” Brian glared at Roger, who was laying on Brian’s naked bed, his hands woven together, resting on his chest as he looked at the ceiling.

“Not my job to wake you up, Bri. You’re twenty three. Why was your alarm even set?” He furrowed his eyebrows, interrogating Brian, who struggled to button his flared trousers due to his shaky hands.

“You waited fucking half an hour! Now I’m going to be late and it’s my first day!” Brian stood in front of a mirror which hung by his closet, mussing his hair in an attempt to somehow reverse how messy it looked already, loose curls arranged in awry tufts.

“First day for what?” Deaky walked in, his feet padding against the cold floors. He was wearing his boxers and a baggy t-shirt, his voice groggy from a restless slumber.

“University! I’m still going to school, remember? I’ve only told you on about eight different occasions.” Brian shrugged a white button-up on, not bothering to fasten it all the way; he didn’t have time. He turned his necklace around on his thin neck so the chain was positioned as he wanted it to be.

“Right. Well you definitely told us that while we were pissed off our asses.” Roger had plugged Brian’s alarm clock back into the wall, and was attempting to set it to the correct time again by looking at a watch of Brian’s sitting beside it.

“Whatever. What time is it, Rog?” Brian yawned, pulling a light jacket on as he sat on his bed, scouring the floor for socks to wear. He found a navy blue one an a black one and decided those colors were similar enough to count as matching.

“Quarter past nine.” He pat the clock gently as he finished setting it.

“Fuck.” Brian piled his books into his arms and shoved them into his school bag before grabbing a dull pencil and tucking it behind his ear, the yellow barrel obscured by his thick curls.

“Bri we’re recording a demo at five tonight. Bring your guitar; you always forget it and we’re too fucking poor to wait on you like last time and waste our rental money.”

Brian glared at Roger and slung his guitar case over his shoulder, his school bag hanging heavy on his other one. He was embarrassed to be bringing his bulky instrument on his first day of classes, and was on the verge of anxiety-induced tears by the thought of being late on the first day where school was actually meant to be real and professional and for something.

He strolled through the streets taking wide and sure strides, staring at his watch so often he mumbled ‘sorry’ to quite a few strangers as his guitar case knocked into their sunken shoulders. It was almost half-past, and his shoes were caked in a thin, rain diluted mud, making his presence on the street that much more palpable, a constant reminder that he was late. He was walking against the wind, and his eyes were squinting, his breath caught, frozen in his nostrils and trapped in his throat as the heavy air blocked his lungs.

He ran to the liberal arts building, his guitar hitting against the ridges of his spine as he dodged leisured students who were chatting through the corridors. His watch read nine thirty-four, and he bit his lip as his knuckles rapped against the cherrywood door of the classroom, his metal rings making a clean, tinny sound against it. He had always prided himself on being on time to school. He was always waiting by the door, sitting on a small glossy wooden bench as his foot tapped in tune to the clicking of his watch, waiting for the hour to strike. He hated being late, and he was attempting to rehearse what he was going to say, when the professor opened the door, pursing her thin lips, which she painted red, probably in an attempt to reassure herself that her youth wasn’t completely lost.

She rose her thin, almost semicircular eyebrows, opening the door wider for Brian to come in. When she saw his guitar case, she scoffed, and Brian’s face reddened, feeling her judgement as his professor looked him up and down, noting his disheveled hair, his exposed chest, tight pants, muddy shoes. Brian sauntered through the door, trying his best to look cool and relaxed, channeling his on-stage persona which was admittedly hard to summon when seventy-five colleges students were staring at him as if he were an unworthy specimen.

“This isn’t a music studio, I hope you know that much--,” She paused, looking at her roster, waiting for Brian to fill in the blank. He stood in front of the rows of seats, and he finally understood why students were referred to as pupils; he felt more than one hundred of them watching his every move, amused by his perturbation.

“Brian. May.” He straightened his back, trying to get his guitar to fall more comfortably on his body; it was starting to make his back ache. He continued, trying to redeem himself, but it presented itself as a lost cause. “I know it’s not uh--a music studio. My band has a recording session after my classes today. I wouldn’t normally be so--late. And messy.” He added, shaking his head slightly to move his hair out of his face, even though he wanted nothing more than to hide behind it.

The class snickered, their chairs orchestrating a symphony of screeching against the paneled floors as they stifled laughs at Brian’s embarrassment.

“Well, keep your guitar by the door, so people can actually see the lecture you’ve so kindly interrupted.” Brian quickly pulled the strap over his head, his hair bouncing back into its place--not that it really had a place on his head. Each strand fell on his face--upon his brow, differently every day. “You can sit down next to Y/N Y/L/N. She’s front and center. Can’t hide in the back when you fail to be on time.”

Brian’s eyes followed the professor’s--who he learned was named professor Lee--perks of standing beside her desk for over two minutes; he counted on his watch. You sat exactly where she said, and you were looking at him with concern, your legs crossed over one another as your sneaker-covered feet bobbed up and down. You were wearing a casual dress with black tights, your shoulders covered by a thick coat. You were drawing swirls along the curved corners of your notebook, your fingers tracing over the metal spiral simultaneously. Your eyes were boring into his, your lip sucked between your teeth nervously. Brian’s eyes widened as he took in your features, the easiness of them making him nervous to sit down next to a creature so beautiful, and effortlessly so. Your hair cascaded perfectly, falling in a way that was completely opposite of his own. His shoulders fell as he took his school bag off, setting it on the floor next to yours. You gave him a genuine smile, your eyes crinkling, eyebrows framing the grin flawlessly. He smiled back, canines poking through bitten, wind-chapped lips. Brian stretched his legs as he slyly buttoned his shirt up a bit more, feeling out of place in a room full of pristinely dressed, serious students. He always identified as a serious student, but his confidence was severely off-kilter because of just  how much he stood out. HIs hair wasn’t gelled down, he didn’t wear a nice tie, or tailored trousers. His nails were painted, fingers adorned with silver rings, still cold to the touch. He had grown more comfortable with feeling uncomfortable--different--because he had to as a performer. He’d learned to embrace his style, which would forever be more akin to his musical persona than his studious, scientific one. But sitting next to the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, he wished he could have made himself a worthy contender of getting to know you. He wished he wouldn’t have embarrassed himself so much, made himself look uncaring, stupid. He wanted to promise you:  yes, I’m smart! I care so much about this; I’m not normally like this!

But he pulled his own journal out, fresh and leather bound, a gift from his father for enrolling into university once again, almost as soon as the accomplished glow of graduation wore from his face, the happiness immortalized by hundreds of photos his mother insisted on taking. He reached behind his ear, in search of the pencil he had tucked there earlier. He couldn’t find it, and he desperately patted his pockets, rolling his eyes as he failed to find one in his bag as well. His heartbeat was warped, uneven as he leaned towards you, your perfume wafting into him, making him even more nervous, somehow. You felt his eyes on you, and saw him leaning in through your peripheral vision, so you turned your head to face him, taken aback by his big, hazel-but-leaning-towards-brown eyes, his eyelashes delicate, but heavy looking nonetheless. His nose was aquiline, curved and prominent, a centerpiece that accented the rest of him well. His bottom lip protruded as he asked you if you would so kindly spare him a pencil. Or pen; he specified he would be okay with any utensil.

You rummaged through your bag, handing him a purple pen, the plastic cap barely bitten, but you were a bit tentative on giving it to him. His fingers brushed against yours, and you noticed the size of his hands, the white nail polish, chipping along the edge of his nails as he took the pen from your loosening grasp.

“Thank you, Y/N.” He whispered, looking up at you through his impossibly long lashes, as he scribbled on the corner of the first page of his journal. The pen was dry, and Brian poked his tongue out, poking the tip of the ben with it, the sting of metal coursing through his mouth, making him wince a bit.

“No problem, Brian.” you uttered, watching as the ink began to flow upon the page, purple ink bleeding into illegible scribble as he focused on the lecture. You turned away and did the same, until the professor dismissed class, the students intuitively and synchronously gathering their things to leave. Brian was slower, not wanting to leave before you did. He mirrored your actions, filing his papers in a folder, closing his journal gently, pretending to be fascinated by a blank, speckled piece of paper inside of it. He only stood up to leave as you did. He halted by the door, where his guitar case sat, leaned against the edge of the chalkboard. He bent down, picking it up slowly, trying not to be too conspicuous with his side-eyed glances to you, as you smiled at a couple, letting them leave in front of you. You hung your head, messing with the hem of your dress, pulling a frayed string from the seam. Brian stood at the door, looking at the plethora of novels shoved into professor Lee’s wooden bookshelf that, uncoincidentally, matched the wood on the classroom door perfectly. Your pen was between his lips, protruding out like a long skinny and purple cigarette, as he feigned interest in whatever book cover caught his eye.

As you neared him, Brian’s stature improved, his back straightening although his lower back was tender from the weight of his many bags and cases. He quickly took the pen from out of his mouth, wiping the spit that gathered on the end on his sleeve.

“Sorry.” he handed the dried pen to you.

“Don’t worry about it.” Your fingers lingered on top of his as you took the pen back, sending a jolt up the back of your neck, and you shivered a bit.

As soon as you and Brian left the classroom, your friend’s arm was draped around your shoulder, leading you away from the bewildered face of Brian, standing in the hallway, looking like a sea of words were jumbled in his mouth, unable to get out.

__

“How was it?” Freddie took a sip from a half-drunk beer bottle, passed to him by Deaky. Brian was the last to arrive at the recording studio--his astronomy class was long and strenuous, but he felt a lot better, because that’s where he really fit in, where he knew what he was doing.

“Besides being late because you guys are assholes, it was fine.” He took his guitar out of its case and pulled the leather strap over his head, tracing the swirling designs which reminded him of the designs you drew in your tattered notebook.

“Darling, you’re getting your PhD. You’re smarter than all of us, so you can figure out how to wake your skinny ass up.” Freddie took another swig of beer, tilting his head back. His jaw was prominent, and his eyes were a bit puffy, like the rest of the band’s.

Brian sat down on the couch next to Roger, strumming, pulling each string, pronounced and harmonic as the melody thumped through the cigarette-smoke tainted air around them. It was impromptu; Brian came up with it on the spot, his mouth hung open as his coin plucked the strings, vibrations coursing through knobby fingers.

“That’s a nice sound, Bri.” Deaky scooted near him, and watched intently as Brian repeated it, his lip pulled taut between his teeth.

“Got lyrics for that? A composition?” Freddie set his bottle of beer down, standing up as the producers came in on time, for once.

“Uh--no. Just came up with it on the spot.”

“It would be a shame to waste that; it was gorgeous!” Fred pinched Brian’s cheek and pointed a finger at their two producers--short, burly men that contrasted from the band’s look. They looked tired, and annoyed by their liveliness, by their perpetual feelings of having nothing to lose--except for money.

They began recording a short EP, and it was a good day at the studio. Their voices meshed together, silk that was carefully threaded, impossible to pull apart, cohesive, but somehow still fragile and elegant. They never missed a beat, and their long nights of playing until their fingers were blistered and their voices shaky paid off.

The producer pulled his headphones off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was smiling though, which was rare for his usually quite cold and harsh demeanor. “This is really strong, guys.” He said, his smile growing so his crooked teeth poked from under chapped lips. “I have a good feeling about this demo. Radio stations have a good chance of actually playing this.”

Brian nudged Roger, and they all began to celebrate, taking swigs from a flat bottle of beer sitting on the edge of a coffee table, scattered with playboys and time magazines--requests from both sides of the spectrum.

“But,” He finished, pointing a finger at them. “I think it would be better received if there were a slower song. Keep Yourself Alive and Liar are fantastic. And I love how My Fairy King slows it down a notch. But I think it needs one more strong song, just to show them you can do it, you know?”

They all nodded, understanding his point, and willing to follow whoever or whatever to the end of the earth if it meant they could gain a speck of recognition for over a year of musical differences, failed bookings, unimpressed record companies.

“Brian, maybe something with that guitar thing you did?” Roger suggested, pointing his almost-empty beer bottle at him, sitting on the arm of the couch, watching as the producers prodded with the controls, playing with the sounds.

“Yeah, I’ll try to come up with something.” He picked the chipping nail polish from his cuticles, trying to think about possible lyrics. But the thing about songwriting--writing in general--for Brian, was that it couldn’t be a forced act. It was like that for everybody, he thought. It had to come deep from the subconscious, the chambers of the heart, submerged in blood and vulnerability.

__

It was the third week of classes before he saw you again. You had been sick for a week--he didn’t ask you, or know for sure, but he could see it within the rawness on your nose, how your lips were chapped just slightly, your skin a tad paler. He shuffled in his seat as you sauntered towards yours. Brian’s smile faltered as he saw a hand resting on your lower back, against the suede of your coat, probably soft against his fingers. It was a guy he recognized; he sat a couple rows back. He was the complete opposite of Brian physically: more than a head shorter, neat, straight blond hair. He wore expensive suits to class, and wire rim glasses that looked outdated, but he also pulled them off nicely. He was more forward, his hand was tracing down your body, inching lower on your back, almost pulling at the top of your skirt. His name was Thomas, he believed--or maybe he went by Tommy. Brian’s gaze followed Tommy’s fingers, as they crawled towards your hips, digging into the soft skin before he kissed you softly. Brian quickly turned his way as his eyes met Tommy’s, instead looking at the door, watching the students trudge in, finding their seats as they shrugged off soaked coats, rubbing their hands together to create any kind of friction. He raised his eyebrows at Brian, hanging your coat on the back of your seat. Your lips pressed a firm kiss on his jaw as he stood up again, your dark lipstick staining his skin.

The lecture began, seemingly as soon as Brian tore his eyes from your profile. You could feel his stare, his jaw tensed. And then he looked away as professor Lee came in, setting her bag down before getting to her lecture, her dainty fingers holding a fresh piece of chalk, dry in her hands.

“We’re beginning our section on ballads today.” She scrawled the word in white, her handwriting lopsided, uppercase, angry. Brian covered his journal with his arm, writing your name on the top of the paper, so small he had to squint to make it out. He scribbled it out just as fast, realizing how stupid he was--a post-graduate student, a few years away from being Doctor May, pining over a girl who was dating his obverse, a guy he could never be--never wanted to be.

“I want you all to write a ballad or an ode. I want it to be abstract and complicated. It needs to be professional and serious--this isn’t just some entry level course. It should be done by the 2nd of October. I’m giving you almost a month, so be thorough, creative.” Professor Lee rubbed her hands together, a puff of powdered chalk billowing through the air as she dismissed the class.  Brian slammed his journal shut, pushing his pen behind his ear as he quickly packed his belongings; he had to go as soon as possible. He grabbed his bag quickly, shoving the journal inside along with his textbook, not caring that his paperback ripped a bit as the tough corner of his textbook nudged against it. Tommy was between your desk and Brian’s, his hands in his pocket as he waited for you to pack up your things. He adjusted his glasses as he made eye contact with Brian, Brian rolling his eyes the almost imperceptibly at his smug face, his expensively tailored shirt and silk tie.

“How did your recording session go?” Tommy asked, condescendingly, handing Brian a small paper he had dropped--a draft of a song he was writing. He snatched it from the shorter man’s hand and shoved it in his pocket.

“We recorded a demo. We’ll see if it gets anywhere; we just have to make some finishing touches.” Brian pursed his lips, his curls flopping as he picked his bag up. You and this Tommy--Brian still didn’t know if that was even his name--followed him as he left, almost mockingly. As if he were saying look, I have what you want. I’ll never let you forget it. Brian stood up taller, slowing down so he was walking next to you, your boyfriend on the other side, his arm around your waist, holding you tightly. You looked up at Brian as he spoke, more relaxed now, mellow and sultry.

“I’m hoping the demo is well-received. We worked really hard on it.”

What he said was innocent enough, but as you watched his face, his curls falling over his dilated eyes, his lip bitten, his shirt unbuttoned like always, you wondered what he was doing. His jaw clenched, and your face grew hot as his sleeve just barely brushed against yours; two whole layers in between making you imagine how touching his bare skin would feel--but you couldn’t do that. Brian opened the heavy door, leading outside where a persistent rain was cascading through the streets. The clouds were almost yellow, hazy, like the leaves which crunched beneath the feet of perturbed Londoners, shuffling past each other, shoulder-to-shoulder. He ushered you out, making sure that Tommy went first. Brian pressed a hand down on your shoulder, and the touch was firm, you felt it everywhere.

“Do you--” you began, pulling your hood up to cover your head, looking at Brian, angelic yet almost sinful to look at.

But he interrupted you, patting both your and Tommy’s shoulders as he raised a hand to greet a blond guy across the street, who was holding a cigarette between his lips, shielding it with jittery hands as he attempted to light it by the covered entrance of a restaurant.

“I’ve gotta go,” He grinned at you two, pointing a thumb across the puddled street. “See you guys next week?”

You nodded, a shiver rising up your back, not because of the cold, but because of Brian’s voice; you’d never noticed how nice it really was. You grabbed his wrist, and Tommy glared at you confused.

“Brian.” You said, assured. He quirked an eyebrow. “You’ve got an eyelash on your cheek.” You stood on your toes and plucked it off, the dark hair prominent against your fingertip. You held it in front of his lips. “Make a wish.” You nudged your finger forward, bumped by a stranger’s shoulder against your own. Your finger grazed against his bottom lip, just barely, as he blew his eyelash, watching as it was whisked away.  

Brian waved a goodbye at you, his ring shining under a particularly bright street light as he strode across the street, his hands now shoved deep in his pockets, his hands playing with the perforated edges of a song, hidden away.

___

That night left him sitting at his desk, his fingers gripping his pencil, which he forgot was behind his ear until Deaky teased him for it.

“You’re such a geek, with your pencil behind your ear. How studious you are.” He reached up and grabbed it, and Brian took it back, facetiously rolling his eyes.

Now, he used that pencil, tapping on the crumpled paper in front of him, the same piece that was tucked away in his pocket all day. It was a little soggy, but it would work well enough. The boys were bugging him to write a song, and he knew he had a ballad to write for class anyway. The rubber eraser was dull, completely flat and black, from all of the erasing, and it had grown shorter from how much he had used it. He leaned back on the legs of his desk chair, a mahogany wooden one his father made for him as a housewarming gift. He squinted his eyes, trying to make out the time on his alarm. His eyes focused, and he sighed deeply. It was nearing four AM, and he didn’t have a single, cohesive line written down. He turned off his desk lamp, the only light in his room from the stars, which seemed to be unusually bright, and unshrouded by heavy clouds, like they always were in London. Brian hugged his legs to his chest, looking out the window, his eyes glossed over, tired but unable to sleep. He picked the fuzz from his socks, taking a deep breath before dozing off, curled up tightly. The flat was empty; Deaky was at his girlfriends, Roger and Freddie out at the bars. But he sat alone, like always, cold.

__

The week elapsed quickly, and Brian hadn’t looked at the song--well the lack thereof--since shoving it in the depths of his school bag seven days before. That next Monday was sunnier than usual, and the flat was eclectic, even at ten AM--which was much earlier than the other three men would ever choose to wake up. They had a gig that night, only because a desperate pub owner’s former booking backed out after they all developed awful strep.

“What a blessing!” Freddie clapped his hands together, alluding to the other band’s sickness.

“Watch it, Fred. Karma’ll get you if you keep saying that shit.” Deaky rubbed his eyes, pulling socks on his feet, which looked numb.

“Oh, shut the hell up. We needed this.” Freddie poked Roger’s sides, sitting on his stomach, making the blond wince in pain. He groaned, pushing Freddie off of him, holding his stomach as he curled into himself. He was hungover from the night before; he and Freddie had stolen sips of uncountable martinis, whiskeys and gins at the bars the night before, and the concoction of it all seemed to be chemically reacting inside of him.

“Fuck, Fred. I won’t be able to play if you kill me.” He rolled over, shoving a throw pillow over his head. “Let me be.” His voice was muffled, his lips against the couch. “How are you even functioning, Freddie? You drank more than me.” His voice was barely intelligible, but Freddie understood perfectly well.

“It’s the adrenaline, sweets. Where’s Brian?” Freddie left Roger alone, walking over to his room. The door was shut, and Freddie, opened it, Deaky following behind him.

“He’s at uni to finish some astronomy thing so he can take the day off for the gig.” Deaky took a bite out of an apple.

“Chew it right in my ear, Deaky.” He rolled his eyes, and Deaky chewed more dramatically, directly into his ear as he ran away.

“You’re fucking deplorable, Deaks. Who raised you?” He giggled, taking another apple from their counter, biting into it just as pronounced, the juice dribbling down his chin. They heard keys jingling outside of the door, and Freddie looked through the tiny peephole, shoving Deaky aside so he could see first. But Deaky swung the door open.

“Bri!” He ruffled the taller man’s hair, and Brian pulled his bag off of his shoulder, dropping it on the ground by their coat rack, the hard books inside clunking against each other. “You ready for tonight?”

“I suppose. I’m a bit nervous; we haven’t really played in awhile.” He shut the door behind him, pulling his jacket off.

“DON’T FUCKING SLAM YOUR SHIT ON THE GROUND, BRIAN!” Roger screamed, groaning into the crevice of the couch.

“He’s hungover.” Freddie nodded, throwing the core of his apple into the trash, along with Deaky’s. “But he has to suck it up and get up! Because we have a show to put on at seven!” Freddie screamed towards the living area, and Roger’s feet twitched, startled by his voice.

“Get me about four painkillers and a cold glass of water and I’ll think about it.” Roger sat up, his eyes sunken and bloodshot, making the blues of his irises that much more pronounced. Brian reached into the cupboard and got him three painkillers.

“All we have left.” He confirmed shaking two other empty bottles of pills, tossing them away. Freddie handed him a glass of water, the ice clinking against the spotted glass.

Twenty minutes later, they were in the band van, Brian driving since he was the most level-headed. Roger would usually insist, but he was in the back, leaning his head against the side of the van, groaning as he hugged Brian’s blanket around his body.

“Turn the heat up, maybe?” Roger scolded, projecting so Brian could hear him over the rattling of their instruments.

“The heat is on, love. You can’t feel it when you’re as far away from the front as possible.” Freddie turned to face Roger, who was flipping him off as he crawled to the front so he could warm up a bit.

“Turn right at this light, Bri.” Freddie pointed to the traffic light a ways away, the yellow light hazy and fuzzy around the edges.

“I know how to get there.” Brian stopped at the light, the windshield splashing with a thick coat of muddy rain as other cars drove away. Brian gripped the wheel as he turned, the windshield wipers ridding the window of the acidic rain.

He parked the van at the back entrance of the pub, where, thankfully, there was a small awning so they wouldn’t be completely soaked. They lugged the drum kit out first, and Roger refused to help, widening his eyes and holding his stomach, feigning and over exaggerating his hangover.

“I’m sure this mysterious illness will suddenly cure itself when you find a groupie tonight.” Deaky slung Brian’s guitar over his back, grabbing extra drumsticks, thrusting them into Roger’s hand. “Can you handle these, Rog?” He patted his back gently, giving him a faux-sympathetic look. Roger faked a cough and wobbled inside as Brian locked the van, their wardrobe bags tucked under his arm.

__

It was nearing seven, and the band’s persistent advertising paid off; they were almost at capacity. Brian peeked out from behind the curtains, seeing everyone packed together tightly, the sound of Roger’s cymbals only accentuating the loudness of the crowd.

“It’s packed.” Brian smiled, giving his bandmates a thumbs up as he slung his guitar over his body. All of their outfits were a lot more flamboyant than usual, the patterns more daring, pleats more defined. Their eyes were caked in makeup, and eyeliner threatened to smear from the sweat that was already forming from nerves and body heat in excess.

The show began almost promptly at seven; they had begun to set up too early, but they couldn’t help the excitement of having their own gig--no openers, no distractions--even if it were entirely coincidental. They played with complete precision, their voices flowing through each other, harmonies flawless. Roger’s beat never faltered, Deaky’s fingers never skipped a chord. Freddie’s voice was clear, resonating loud, his projection making a microphone almost unnecessary. Brian felt in his element, talented. He was zoned out, not thinking about university for the first time since classes began weeks ago. His fingers slid across the strings, almost automatically, even though he hadn’t seriously practiced or played in what felt like months. The recording studio was different; they had the ability to fuck up. But there, on stage, was the real deal. It was showing the world their capabilities when there was no room for mistakes, and a quite sufficient amount of room for ridicule and criticism. But the crowd wasn’t critical, Brian thought, as he watched them sway, entranced by Freddie’s performance, his mike stand almost conducting them to move in sync with each other. His eyes squinted, blinded by the red lights, the stage smoke which Freddie insisted was a critical part of the experience. And as the lights were cut, Brian, along with the rest of the band hated to feel the beginnings of the end already. They wanted more, wanted to be the center of attention for more than a two hour set every few weeks, whenever they could get lucky enough to book something semi-substantial.

As Brian ducked backstage, he already heard the unmistakable sound of a champagne bottle being popped, then the protests as the foam bubbled over. Deaky sucked it from the side of the bottle, Roger opening his mouth to catch the drops which were dripping down the side of the green glass bottle. A bartender handed Brian some champagne flutes, and he fumbled with them holding each one between a bony finger as he set them down on the table, which was really an empty beer crate. Freddie poured them all a glass, and then another one. And they popped open more bottles of champagne before they ventured to the bar, where crowd members bought them shot after shot, which they downed, out of respect, of course.

So Brian wasn’t all that surprised when he woke up, drool dried on the side of his cheek, his arm hung off the side of a booth, his body halfway obscured under a table which was cluttered with dirty glasses, limes with the juice sucked out. His arm was severely asleep, and his head was pounding, his legs curled up since the booth was much too short to fit his entire body. He tried to sit up, but he hit his head on the bottom of a gum-plastered table.

“Ow!” He rubbed his head, and Deaky jostled on the booth across from him, groaning. His shirt was all the way unbuttoned, and one of his shoes was nowhere to be found, the other one still snug on his foot.

“Fuck.” Brian ran behind the bar, throwing up in a trashcan as he held onto the edge of the marble tabletop for support. He stood up, wiping his mouth with a napkin he found under a diluted martini. He was getting himself a glass of water when he saw the time on a neon clock hung near a shelf of vodkas. It was 8:55 AM. It could be worse he thought, quickly filling three more glasses with cold water, setting them by Deaky, Freddie, and Roger who were all knocked out, snoring in different corners of the bar, stinking of booze and sweat, just like Brian probably did. He grabbed his guitar and the keys to the van, changing into his old clothes which sat, pooled in the back. Except he accidentally put on Deaky’s shirt which was way too tight. But he didn’t have time to change; he just put on a velvet blazer and some trousers that could have been Freddie’s (they seemed a bit short), and grabbed his school bag, patting himself on the back for underestimating himself the night before. He left the keys back with Deaky, knowing he’d be the most apt to drive them home, judging by Roger and Freddie’s sleeping positions--Freddie was almost upside down, and Roger was on the floor, half naked, still holding on tightly to a half-drunk bottle of gin.

Brian jogged to class this time, the streets a bit quieter, as most of the weekend crowd had dwindled. Everyone seemed to know where they were going, and Brian strode through the outskirts of campus, cutting through a small trail lined with foliage. He held his guitar this time, his knuckles numbed and white from gripping the handle so hard. He lifted his watch--it was 9:26. He ran into the liberal arts building, like every Tuesday, sliding through the heavy wooden door, etched with swirled designs that reminded him so much of home, although he didn’t know why.

He was in his seat by 9:28, sweating profusely, and extremely self-aware of how weird he must have looked. Last night’s makeup was smeared around his eyes, glittery eyeshadow now highlighting his cheeks. His mouth was dry, his shirt two sizes too small. His pants were a bit short; he had definitely grabbed Freddie’s on accident. And he probably smelled awful, with booze on his breath to top it off. He leaned on his elbows, covering his mouth as he tapped his pen on his desk, trying to distract himself from your gaze, which he felt boring into him, and he just wanted to crawl into himself and never be seen again. He felt many eyes on him, judgemental and glaring; he stood out even more than usual, and he didn’t even know why he bothered coming. He rested his head on his desk, hoping he would forget about the stares if he couldn’t blatantly see them. His curls laid splayed on the desk, his hands in fists, his ankles cold from his much-too-short-pants.

The door slammed, and everyone sat up a little straighter, subconsciously fixing their hair that didn’t need to be fixed, straightening an already straightened tie. Brian lifted his head, the brighter lights that the professor turned on as she arrived making a dull pain ache between his eyes and run down the bridge of his nose. If he had to guess, he was still a bit tipsy from the night before.

“Long night, Mr. May?” Professor Lee looked inquisitively at Brian, who squinted at the mere brightness of her pale skin. He was glad she only said it loud enough so Brian could hear, and maybe you.

“Concert last night.” He answered, blinking slowly to savor his dwindling energy, already low from a severe lack of sleep--even for him.

“Smeared makeup,” She wiped a line of eyeliner from his cheekbone. “Is quite the look.”

You smirked in your seat next to him, crossing your arms. As class began, you could feel Brian’s gaze deepening on you, staring at your hands resting on your cheek, your legs clad in a skirt. The remaining alcohol in his system minimized his usually very heightened inhibitions, and he stared at you shamelessly but sadly, knowing his pining was nothing but a lost cause. You shifted in your seat, glancing at Brian whenever he wasn’t looking at you--which wasn’t often. But he looked good. His pupils were dilated, the aftershock from being drunk, you were sure. His chest was visible, and his shirt was a bit too small; makeup accentuated his sharp features yet softened them a bit. His hands rested under the desk, in his lap, where he spun his ring around his pinky finger, waiting for the lecture to end.

And seemingly hours and hours later, it did, cued by professor Lee slamming her book of ballads shut, dust fuming from in between yellowed pages.

“Don’t forget, your ballads are due next time I see you. I hope none of you have procrastinated.” She pointed an accusatory finger at the class, and they all lied through their teeth with enthusiastic head shakes.

“And Brian?” She called out, looking directly at him, the tallest one in the room by far. “I will be expecting an invite to your next concert; I’m quite curious about you. I think we all are.” She sat down at her desk, straightening a stack of books, as she looked at a very confused and embarrassed Brian, standing up, his guitar slung over his back like always.

“Um,” He stammered, trying to recall the booking schedule while it seemed like the whole class was frozen, waiting for Brian to humiliate himself, probably. “There’s one tonight. It’s at Imperial College, in the auditorium.” He nodded.

“Could I come? I’m sure some of your peers would love to see it too.” Professor Lee’s overly nice demeanor was confusing Brian, and his eyebrows furrowed together as he scratched his head.

“Uh--if you want. I mean yes, you’re all welcome. It’s 2 pounds to get in.” He didn’t want to invite everybody, but if their crowd was lacking and Freddie found out Brian’s modesty cost them a good show--he’d never hear the end of it.

You watched Brian pick at his jacket, absentmindedly stroking the velvet to distract himself from this embarrassment. He truly hoped nobody from class came to see him--not because he doubted his talents, or those of the rest of the boys--but because he knew these rich city kids wouldn’t appreciate the music, much less the performance. But you saw Brian straighten his back as he looked at you, his lip tugged by his teeth, as he decided he didn’t really care what these people thought. Why should he? He watched as your boyfriend hooked an arm around your waist, kissing the top of your head as he began to walk to Imperial College.

__

Brian was already late for rehearsals and setting up, so he didn’t have time to go home and shower. He locked himself in the bathroom at the college instead, awkwardly ducking his head in the sink, just to make him feel a bit cleaner. He found a bit of cologne in the bottom of his school bag, and he silently thanked whatever circumstances left it there. He snuck backstage, shaking his hair dry, a misty rain spraying down his shoulders as he did.

Freddie perked up as he saw him, and grabbed his shoulders, sitting him down on a broken amp. “You scared us half to death, Brian!” He slapped his shoulder, holding his hand out. “Roger hand me that cloth.”

Roger mocked him, rolling his doe-eyes. “A please wouldn’t hurt ya.”

Freddie just closed his fingers over his palm a few times, a gesture for him to get on with it. “No time for manners, Rog. We have a lot to rehearse.” Freddie hummed in delight as he felt a wet cloth being placed in his hand. Freddie bent forward, wiping the excess makeup from Brian’s face; it was smeared under his eyes, around them, on them. When he was satisfied, Freddie handed him an eyeliner pencil. “Also,” Freddie continued, gesturing to Brian’s outfit. “Give Deaky and I our clothes back when you change. Cropped and flared pants are not a look, not even for you sweetheart.”

Brian sat in front of a mirror backstage, his legs crossed as he lined his eyes carefully, like Freddie taught him. He pulled his eyelid taut, his mouth hung open as he smudged a black line on the puffy skin by his eyelashes. He changed into his own pants, which Freddie so kindly returned to him, and unbuttoned Deaky’s much-too-small silk button-up, breathing with relief when he finally had his full range of motion again. The concert was hours away, but Freddie insisted that the band fully immersed themselves into rehearsals--and that meant the makeup, the outfits, the nail polish.

__

At six forty-five, the crowd began to shuffle in, and Brian could feel his stomach tightening with anxiety--or was it pure fear? He found himself searching for you, but he couldn’t see; the contrast of the brilliant stage lights with the pitch-black pit was too large.

Brian was startled, as Roger slapped a hand on Brian’s shoulder, covered by ridiculous pleats and ruffles. “Are you alright?” He raised an eyebrow, and Brian turned to face him, shrugging his shoulders, his hands wrapped protectively around the neck of his guitar. He flipped his sixpence between his fingers.

“I’m fine.” Brian sighed. “I think some classmates are coming here, and I don’t really want them to be.”

“Why’d you invite them then?” He questioned, sipping some water to swallow a pain-killer.

He didn’t know, really. He told himself it was for Freddie--for the rest of the band. To make them feel like they were accomplishing something, like people were receiving their music well, because in all honesty it felt like they were screaming into deaf ears when it came to their music. But the pit in his stomach that he felt his heartbeat in told him he just wanted you to come. He wanted to show off to you. He wanted to show off to your boyfriend, truthfully.

“We deserve bigger crowds. More publicity.” Brian shrugged, and took Roger’s water of out of his hand, sipping some before handing it back. It was nearing seven and he felt the adrenaline coursing through his veins, on a highway to his quickening heart. The stage lights dimmed, and Brian could see Professor Lee, sitting cross-legged in the front row. A few other peers of his stood next to her, whispering as they side-eyed the stage. And you were right next to them, Tommy’s arm thrown over your shoulder, you nodding solemnly about something he whispered--or probably yelled--in your ear.

The crowd was lively and charged, jolted by the unorthodox performance they gave. Freddie glanced at Brian, giving him a small thumbs up, nodding his head towards where you stood, watching intently. You recognized the blond from a few weeks earlier, even though he was shrouded in a veil of sweat, glistening from the green lighting. The bassist was wearing the same shirt as Brian was earlier, but it fit the smaller man much better; he was able to move his arms swiftly, his shoulders bobbing as he fingered the frets. The singer was a powerhouse, a puppeteer, commandeering the crowd with the curl of a finger, an inflection of his voice. He kept swaying towards Brian, leading the taller man to in front of where you stood, neck craned to watch them--well, to watch Brian. He made eye contact with you plenty of times, his mouth agape, and he had to tear his gaze from your flushed face to focus on his playing. But it seemed his only flaw onstage was the utter perfection of his playing, which was almost maddening to you, and especially to Tommy, who saw you watching him quite intently. Brian tilted his neck back, a familiar sheen of sweat covering the expanse of its elegance, his fingers intuitively strumming as he watched you, followed your every gaze with a more intense one of his own. You found your eyes tracing the expanse of his legs, and then watching his fingers move, his forearms tensing from underneath an angelic shirt. You grabbed your boyfriend’s hand and squeezed, and he looked at you, almost relieved by the action. Brian was coy, biting his lip and raising his eyebrows, challenging you. He moved to the other side of the stage swiftly, bouncing over cords elegantly as he knelt down, holding his guitar flat as he strummed, eyeing some girls in the crowd that he would admittedly, never take home. But he wanted to test the waters, to see if you really were that blind. Couldn’t you see he was infatuated?

And sure enough, your gaze was fixed just on him, your ears ringing from the delay in Brian’s guitar, the piercing sound of his talent perfusing the room. Then, the concert ended, and you felt an emptiness pool in your stomach, pervade your thoughts. Brian gave you one last side-eyed glance, his lips pursed in something more akin to anger--not concentration. You tightened your grip on your boyfriend’s hand, convincing yourself this was his performance, a show he put on to keep people wanting more. But you couldn’t help but want so much more yourself. Whatever he was doing, it was working.

Brian hopped offstage a few minutes later, his face clean from the sweat, but his chest still heaving from the high. He talked to the professor, whose hand found his shoulder, giving it a solid pat as she congratulated him. The rest of the peers, Brian noticed, were suddenly changed; now they adored Brian, and a few girls from class hung onto his arm and fluttered their eyelashes, asking him about arbitrary musical things which they definitely had no desire in learning--they just watched his lips, beads of sweat falling over them. And you watched them too, admittedly. You tried to be conspicuous in your glances, but Brian caught your eye and smiled sweetly and innocently as Tommy pulled your arm for you two to leave.

__

As he got home, Brian’s thoughts were consistent. He was thinking about you--your hair, the way you laughed and intertwined your fingers with ones that weren’t his. How you stared at him--or maybe Roger?--so intently, so focused. The rest of the boys were at the bars still, probably pissed out of their minds like every night. But he sat at his desk, tapping a pen on the paper. The pen, to him, made it harder to start. He couldn’t make a mistake, and he needed to write about something unguarded, something completely true to his feelings, and the only thing he thought of that fit the bill was you. How you didn’t really see him. How you looked at him more like a subject than a person, how you turned your nose up and looked away when Brian stared. But also how reticent and ambiguous you were, teasing him with stolen glances--just a few. So his pen ran across the paper, sketching his thoughts distinctly.

He didn’t want to lose his chance with you--no matter how slim it was. He wrote until the sides of his hands were black from ink, and his fingers cramped, unable to form a legible letter no matter how hard he tried to. The morning sun crept through white curtains as he wrote the last line, scribbled and underlined and faded by a lack of ink.

So sad it ends

As it began

He folded the paper on his desk, and laid down, getting a few measly hours of rest.

Freddie burst through the door at nine AM, shaking Brian’s foot, which hung off the end of his bed. He was laying on his stomach, hugging his pillow, in his trousers, his hair awry.

“The studio awaits us!” Freddie clapped his hands together, poking Brian’s nose which barely poked out from the hair obscuring his face.

“Right now?” Brian whimpered, sitting up and rubbing his tired eyes.

“I don’t get up this early on purpose, sweetie. Now, did you write that song you promised us?” Freddie spun a globe which sat on Brian’s table, tracing his finger along the equator.

“Oh,” He thought for a second, still groggy. “I did, actually. Last night.”

“May I read it?” Freddie’s fingers plucked the folded paper on Brian’s desk, he assumed that was it.

“Go for it.” Brian put an old hoodie on, shoving his hands in his pocket.

Freddie’s face contorted in a multitude of emotions as he read the lyrics, and he sighed heavily as he finished. “Sad,” he nodded. “But, I love it. Quite honestly it’s nice.”

Brian smiled; it wasn’t too often that Freddie actually approved of a Brian May original.

__

The producer replayed the track, flipping a different switch, per Roger’s request.

“More drums at the end.”

Freddie scoffed, rolling his eyes, puffing a cigarette slowly. He pointed it at Roger, who yanked it from Fred’s grasp and puffed it himself.

“This isn’t a drummy song.” Freddie took the cigarette back, taking a deep drag.

“At some parts it should be!”

“It’s Brian’s song.” Deaky lit his own cigarette, leaning over the control panels to watch the producers work. “What do you think?”

Brian shrugged. “I think it could be a bit heavier with the drums at some part. Rog played really well today.”

Roger blew a kiss to Freddie, batting his eyelashes dramatically. “What did I say?”

The producer added stronger drums, a pen between his lips as he nodded at the enhanced sound, the beat dramatic. “I like it, guys. It’s a strong demo, and White Queen is only adding to the strength here.” He sent the band home with a few copies, almost translucent from overdubs and countless alterations.

__

The deadline had approached--Brian could tell by the nervous, forced banter between his peers, Their papers crinkling as they surreptitiously attempted to hide the content from the class--although they would all be presenting it soon. Brian flipped the demo in his hands, tracing his fingers over the sleeve, where Queen was written in deep blue marker, underlined with a tracklist underneath. The tension in the room was palpable as professor Lee strolled in, her usually straight hair barely curled, the gray strands glistening under the lights.

“The dreaded day.” She announced, sitting at her desk as she read over her roster, looking up at her class, awaiting, terrified. For the entire lecture, she called names randomly, summoning them to the front of the room, where they read bland poems in hushed, monotone voices. A few were good, but Brian wasn’t paying attention; he was shifting in his seat uncomfortably, feeling nauseous from his anxiety. She was torturing him, he was sure of it. They were running out of time, when she glanced up at him raising her palm up, a command for him to get up. He grabbed his record player from under his chair; it was wooden, a gift from his mother a long time ago.

“What is this setup?” She questioned, gesturing to him.

“My ballad is a song I wrote.” Brian set up the record player, his face flushing as he heard disapproving groans. You sat up in your chair, watching him as he took a small vinyl from its paper sleeve, setting it gently on the player. He placed the needle in the middle, and the bridge to Liar began to play, booming through the tiny speakers. “That’s not it.” Brian laughed nervously, looking up at Professor Lee; he was kneeling on the floor, trying to find the right place. When he did find it, soft, almost harp-like guitars flooded the room, and Brian stood up, leaning against a desk at the front, his arms crossed as he looked at his feet, not knowing what to do. He looked intently at you, hoping you’d understand it was all for you. The drums were enhanced, matching with Brian’s heartbeat, thumping, hard, and assuredly audible. Freddie’s voice was magnetic, and so were you. He was so drawn to you, and he didn’t know the first thing about you--what your major was, where you were from. He just had to have you, and he tugged his lip between his teeth as he shook the hair away from his eyes.

You watched him too, the way he was so obviously nervous, yet assured of his talent by the way he smirked almost inconspicuously as a particularly good lyric was sung, a guitar riff heard. His chest was red from a blush that crept up his entire body, his forearms looked strong under his sleeves which remained rolled up, despite his constant pulling at them. He was doe-eyed, his lips bitten and his skin tanned, his curls and waves extra defined. You couldn’t deny how attractive he was, and although it wasn’t him singing--he wasn’t even speaking-- it felt like he was singing to you, for you. You felt a shiver run up your spine, like when Brian’ touched you for the first time on that street corner, fleeting but so there. The song ended, and the class erupted into applause, whistling as Brian took the vinyl from the turntable, giving them a tight smile. He felt so vulnerable, but also like nobody got it.

“That was beautiful, Brian. Do you mind telling what it’s about?”

Brian faltered, but then stood up straight, sighing as he watched you scribbling in your notebook, feigning inattention at him. “I’m infatuated with a girl who doesn’t give me the time of day. The song is about our love that ended as it began, because she can’t see how much I want her.” Brian took his vinyl and record player from its position on a chair and gathered his things, embarrassed by his confession, although it was quite indirect. He left before she ended class officially, forgetting his bag completely.

You were confused; was he angry with you? Was he speaking to you? Picking up his heavy bag, you followed him out, as the rest of the class left along with you. You couldn’t find him among the crowd of students filing outside, mixed with the influx of students going to their noon classes. You pushed your way outside, trying to peer around the midday crowd of Londoners, when you saw Brian leaning against a van parked crookedly across the street. You walked to the other side, avoiding traffic and mumbling an apologetic excuse me to a middle-aged couple you bumped shoulders with. Brian’s face was in his hands, and he was now sitting in the driver’s seat of the van, looking distraught. You knocked on the window, pointing to his bag in your hands as he lifted his head up. His mouth pulled itself into a barely perceptible smile, his lips red from nervous biting. He reached over and unlocked the door, and you got in, without thinking, setting the bag between the driver’s and passenger’s seat. The tension was thick, even though the air was truly cold and thin and hard to breathe in.

“Thank you, Y/N.” He sniffled, clearing his throat a bit.

“You should really tell that girl how you feel. I’m sure she wants you just as much.” You looked at Brian’s profile, his tensed jaw peppered with day-old stubble, his lip protruding slightly.

He turned his head, looking at you almost sinfully. “I don’t think it’s possible for her to want me that much.” Brian had leaned forward again, and he looked at your lips blotted with a deep red lipstick. He wanted it all over him, he thought, tracing his gaze up your nose to look into your eyes. You could hear your hearts beating, and you felt unable to form a syllable, too focused on his eyelashes, which beat against his cheeks, almost innocent-looking.

“Maybe she does.” You retorted, and Brian tucked some of your hair behind your ear. His lips were millimeters away from your own now, and you could feel the edge of his bottom lip tickling yours, his breath ghosting over your mouth, down your chin.

“She has a boyfriend; I know that much.” Brian’s voice was deeper than you had ever heard it before; it was sultry and commanding you, like he did on stage, like he had been since the first day you met him.

“Not anymore.”

Brian held your chin, tracing your lips with his thumb as he sighed, his necklace hanging forward as he leaned closer--impossibly closer. You kissed the pad of his thumb, looking at him keenly as he kissed your jaw, biting your earlobe gently, teasingly, as he whispered in your ear.

“The back?” His fingers swept over the hem of your skirt, and your own brushed through his hair; it was softer than it looked, silky to the touch. You obliged, following him to the backseat, which was quite roomy and comfortable, a blanket thrown over the cushioned seats. Brian sat you on his lap, caressing the ends of your hair as he kissed at the junction of your collarbones, his hands resting on your hips, dragging down over your ass--just like your boyfriend did, just like he dreamt of doing. He squeezed and massaged at the exposed skin--he had bunched your dress around your waist as soon as he had you on his lap. Your fingers pulled at the extra-curly strands of hair at the nape of his neck, and he groaned deeply, sending a jolt to your core, which was lazily grinding against his cock, still restrained by dark velvet trousers. You tilted your head back, moaning as he left open-mouthed kisses at the base of your neck.

But you wanted his mouth on yours so bad your lips were quivering as they connected with Brian’s, which were anything but tentative as they sucked your bottom lip. Your nose was squished against his as you slipped your tongue into his mouth, now grinding yourself firmly against Brian’s cock, which was hardening. You could feel his thickness sliding against you, and your panties were beginning to soak at the feeling of him, the sounds of him groaning into your mouth. Your lipstick--like he had dreamt of so many night before--was all over his mouth, stained into his stubble, trailed down his neck. His hips bucked as your fingers fumbled with the button on his pants, you were almost unable to maneuver the metal button through the hole. But you got it, eventually, as he pulled your dress all the way over your head, rubbing at your clit through your wet underwear, his hips lifting so you could slide his pants down. They fell against the floor, and Brian lifted his foot out of one leg, using it to peel it from the other. You palmed his dick through his briefs and pulled his blazer off, rubbing your hands down the expanse of his chest, ridged and bony, as his nails dug into your hips, grabbing you desperately.

Now, you kissed his neck, sucking at a sensitive spot by his pulse point. He whimpered and threw his head back, rolling his hips faster, you kissing lower and lower on his neck before you reached his collarbones which jutted out from hot, barely freckled skin. He moaned loudly, begging you for more with his eyes, which were widened and dilated with desire.

“I’m so hard for you.” He whined, pushing your panties aside, sucking a finger into his mouth and prodding it inside of you, rubbing your clit with his calloused thumb. Your hips jerked as he added another finger--his middle one--which was so long and dexterous, massaging the front wall, deep inside of you as his thumb did the same languid motions to your clit.

You pulled at the elastic of his underwear, scratching your nails at his hips as you peeled them down his legs. He continued to finger you gently but quickly and skillfully, making you cry out at how good it felt to be full, to be lusted after like this. You spit in your hand, stroking his bare cock slowly, teasing him as your palm ghosted over his tip. You twisted your hand around the shaft, tracing your nails against the prominent vein which ran along it. It was pulsing under your touch, and Brian moaned in shallow breaths, bucking himself into your hand. You rubbed your thumb along the head and gathered a substantial amount of precum, sucking it off of your finger as your other hand squeezed at his balls.

That made him scream, and you shushed him, cupping his balls in one hand as you continued to jerk him off in the other. His hand squeezed at your ass, and you loosened your grip, reveling in the way he whined from the lack of friction on his aching member.

He took advantage of the lack of grip you had on him, curling his fingers deep inside of you, nudging at your g-spot, his mouth mirroring your own pleasure, before he leaned in to kiss you messily, your hands pulling at his hair in an attempt to get him closer. The touches were aching and so needy, your mouths interlocking, your breaths shared with one another.

“I need you,” He moaned against your neck, your hand lazily pumping him as he curled his fingers and rubbed at your clit loosely, the relaxed motion of it all making you grab at his wrist. His eyebrows were furrowed, eyelashes beating against the tops of his blushed cheeks. Then, Brian was pulling his fingers out, pushing them in between your lips. He flipped you over so he was hovering on top, resting on his knees as he sucked on the same fingers you had, making your back arch at the sight of his bitten lips savoring your taste.

You writhed underneath him as his cock slid against your entrance, his velvety tip rubbing against your clit softly. You ran your foot down his back, pushing at his ass with it, a silent bid for him to do what he wanted the most. “I don’t have a condom,” He rested his head against your neck, almost defeated.

“Just pull out, Brian.” You ground your hips upward, watching as his cock slid against your folds.

“Fuuck,” His eyes rolled back. “That’s so good. Feels so good.” He slid against you for a bit longer before he thrust into you, balls-deep. He stopped for a minute, his pelvic bone flush against your inner thighs. You gasped, and he did too, reveling in the feeling of being so deep inside of you.

“You’re so tight.” He mumbled, looking down at you through lashes barely covered with last-night’s mascara.

You just rolled your hips against him, yanking his face down to meet yours by his cold necklace, the chain tickling your sternum as his face hovered over your own. Your lips touched each other’s, your foreheads pressed together, soaked in a sheen of sweat. He pulled out, until his tip was barely inside of you before pushing all the way back in, making you gasp against his mouth that tasted like mint, and only faintly of gin. He thrusted slowly at first, pulling all the way out just to push right back in, making you feel every inch of him, every vein against your walls as his middle finger rubbed at your clit in tight, assured circles.

“Deeper.” You nod your head, urging him, before hooking your leg around his hip and pushing him into you, forcing him as deep as he could get. His breath hitched in his throat, and he lifted your hips up a bit, fucking into you at a new angle which is making you and him dizzy, your ears ringing from feeling all of him--all at once. Brian was unable to keep his eyes open as a strangled groan fell from his lips. He lifted your back, holding you to him as his thrusts became sloppier, his hips rolling unevenly. You pushed his hair back from his face, pressing a kiss to his mouth, his eyes unable to stay open for too long; his eyelids were so heavy.

He opened them enough to watch you fucking yourself against him, your hips rolling in tune with his own, his fingers digging into your hips; there were already purple bruises dotted along them. Brian opened his mouth, nodding as he gasped, his head buried in your neck as you pulled at his hair gently.

“I’m-” He groaned, now holding you by your waist, his lips idle against your collarbone.

“I know--me too.” You nodded, and he pulled out quickly, jerking himself off until his cum painted your stomach, oozing down your hips a bit. He caught it with his fingertips before it could ruin the seat, and you grabbed his hand, licking his seed off of his lengthy digits as he kissed down your torso, his nose resting against your clit as his tongue angled upwards to lick and suck at the nerves.

“Brian,” You whined, pulling his hair as he looked up at you innocently, his hips rocking against the velvety seat. He nibbled just barely at your clit, and you came, chanting his name, your back arching, your hands fisting at his hair. His chin was soaked and he sat up, looking down at his cock which was achingly hard, yet again.

His back was against the seat and you knelt in front of him, sucking him into your mouth, looking up at him through tear-soaked lashes. You licked a firm stripe from the base of him to the tip, and then he was groaning, cumming on his tensed stomach just from the look in your eyes that showed you wanted him too.

You helped him get dressed again, wordlessly pulling his briefs up, and then buttoning his pants while he did the same to his shirt. He handed you your dress, which was lodged between the seat cushions, wrinkled and cold. He pulled it down over your head and kissed your nose, zipping you up, pecking your shoulders while he did so.

You were tired, yawning against your hand as Brian climbed in the front seat, starting the engine after fishing his keys from his pocket, lifting his shaky hips for more leverage. He stroked your hair and gave you a cheeky, bashful smile--only funny because of his drastic duality which always surprised you.

“I hope this isn’t over.” He rubbed a circle on your bare knee, looking at the rearview window before pulling out of the parking spot with ease.

“It’s only just begun.” You held your hand over his and leaned your head against the window, the cold glass cooling your red-hot cheeks, still burning with arousal--but not even close to the scarlet that donned Brian’s cheeks, lifted by a huge, toothy smile.

__

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[huahsu]

YEAR OF THE BUTTERFLY

previous years: A SONG THAT DEGRADES EACH TIME YOU PLAY IT :: 2018 A CHURCH AND JOHN LENNON’S “IMAGINE” :: 2017 SIKH DEVOTIONAL MUSIC :: 2016 SPOOKY BLACK :: 2015 this year: I’ve spent the past few months working on a book that I’ve always wanted to write but never figured I’d make the time for. At a really basic level, it’s about listening to music with friends. A couple weeks ago, I devoted a few days to reading a stack of books and articles about the emotional experience of music. They were written by philosophers, critics, cognitive scientists, historians. I took from them two overarching questions. First, what does it mean to assign a piece of music a feeling, like “happy” or “sad?” Is the song itself “sad,” or does it just model a kind of sadness proximate to how we feel? What elements of a song do this? The fraying of a voice? Minor keys? Tempo? Is it all a trick of memory? None of the answers really satisfied me, since music is such an intimate thing. A song makes us feel a way for reasons that are often either blindingly obvious or remote and mysterious. An expert can tell you that humans are wired to feel joy when a certain configuration of notes are struck in tandem, but maybe it just reminds you of looking at the front door.

The other question was whether music itself facilitates any unique emotional possibilities--a mode of feeling that we can’t get anywhere else. Music doesn’t mimic the real world, it doesn’t make arguments. One writer suggested that the thrill of music was its capacity to remind you, foremost, that music can thrill you. In essence, each time we hear something new and feel something, we are being reminded of all the times we’ve felt this way before. We’re living in the echo of a former enchantment. Maybe you’ll hear it again, process it, assign it a genre or context, and the mystique evaporates. But music is one of those things that doesn’t happen on our time. We don’t stand in front of it and train our gaze on this quadrant or that. We don’t flip back to make sure we didn’t miss something. You can’t slow it down as it is happening, you merely let it happen. 

In the spring, the Museum of Chinese in America in Manhattan showed “The Moon Represents My Heart,” an exhibition I worked on with MOCA’s curators, Herb and Andrew. The basic idea was to look at all the ways music had enriched immigrant life, from early opera troupes touring America’s Chinatowns to karaoke bars, church choirs, and after-school violin lessons, fifties doo-wop trios to garage punks and self-taught dance music producers. There’s no legible tradition of Chinese American music so we just wanted to present it as a textured and everyday thing--the experience of the fan could be as legitimate as that of a Mando-pop superstar. While working on the show, people would often ask me for a playlist, but I didn’t really have any to share. It wasn’t really about the music itself, which could sound derivative or amateur to some. It was about the fact that they sought to express themselves through music, in contexts that made them outliers and oddballs. I came to love all the music in our show because of that second-hand thrill--that sense that these moments had been deeply meaningful to everyone in the room. 

You can hear it in the voice of Stephen Cheng, who ended up being the show’s most memorable star. He put out a rocksteady gem in the sixties and then spent the next decade in New York trying to get the Dragon Seeds, his Chinese “folk-rock” band, off the ground. Cheng died years ago, but Andrew found his children, who brought some reels of unreleased music to the museum. I remember staring at them, wondering what was on them. It was a kind of anticipation and wonder that I often miss, when the operative feeling I associate with music-listening on the internet is the frenzy of opening and closing windows, clicking links, proving my humanity to a captcha.

Stephen’s singing wasn’t great, but it was perfect. His version of “Yesterday,” all warbly and over-the-top, has now supplanted the original for me. Somehow, we played some of Stephen’s songs on the radio, including one about butterflies and love. Somehow, one of the people listening was a butterfly expert, and he was about to marry another butterfly expert. Who knew such a song was possible, the groom-to-be told me. Stephen was too obscure to be properly forgotten. Or maybe his song was just dormant all these years. It awaited just the right listener, and now, over forty years later, he would get his propers, sandwiched somewhere between the vows and Kool and the Gang, a couple minutes of people scratching their heads, searching for the right smile, saying Can you believe this? to one another.

### TEENAGE DREAM

Warren Defever/His Name is Alive, All the Mirrors in the House

EXCELLENT USE OF “P.S.K.” Kindness feat. Robyn, “Warning” EXCELLENT USE OF A TELEPHONE Mavi, “Guernica” TECHNICALLY 2018, BUT TAIWAN’S ANSWER TO COIL, JOY DIVISION, ETC SEN, “The Cicada” SAME (2018) BUT TAIWANESE DREAMBOAT VIBES Linion, “Can’t Find” ANOTHER, KINDA BILLY BRAGG-Y Wayne’s So Sad, “Wanderer’s Guide to Taipei” SUMMER IN TAIWAN, AND SO I BOUGHT A LOT OF CDs, INCLUDING THE LIMITED EDITION SIGNED 9M88 DEBUT 9m88, “Love Rain” THEY ARE VERY INTO THE “FUTURE SOUL” THING Andrea, “You Better Kiss Me” THIS GUY HAS THE SAME NAME AS MY COUSIN Yo Lee demos LOTS OF BACKPACKS Hsien, Lately AMAZED TO SEE LIM GIONG REISSUES THERE, THIS IS THE DANCE ALBUM HE RECORDED IN 1994 IN THE UK BEFORE BRINGING RAVE CULTURE BACK TO TAIWAN Lim Giong, Entertainment World (IF YOU ARE UNFAMILIAR WITH LIM GIONG, THIS IS THE GREATEST SONG EVER Lim Giong, “A Pure Person) AND HERE’S 9m88 COVERING “PLASTIC LOVE” 9m88, “Plastic Love” AIR SUPPLYERS Oso Leone, Gallery Love Sunset Rollercoaster, Vanilla Villa I ENJOYED THIS WHEN IT CAME OUT BUT HONESTLY FORGOT IT CAME OUT THIS YEAR, OR THAT I ENJOYED, BUT FOR THE LONGEST TIME MY “2019″ EMAIL DRAFT JUST READ “CHIEF KEEF HNIA KAIL MALONE (sic)” Chief Keef and Zaytoven, GloToven

ANOTHER DEVASTATING DUO Pink Siifu and Akai Solo, Black Sand

MYSTIC CHORDS OF MEMORY Kali Malone, The Sacrificial Code Clarice Jensen, Drone Studies I AM A SLOW WALKER, BUT I NEVER WALK BACKWARDS Michael Vincent Waller, Moments ana roxane - ~~~ A THOUSAND POINTS OF LIGHT Caleb Giles, Under the Shade Medhane, Own Pace WE ARE THE ONES WE HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR Angel Bat Dawid, The Oracle Art Ensemble of Chicago, We are on the Edge READ JOSEPH JARMAN Joseph Jarman, Black Case I and II RESPECT YOURSELF Helado Negro, This is How You Smile Deb Never, “Swimming” LET’S DO IT AGAIN Tommy Holohan & Casper Hastings- RVE001 Eris Drew, Raving Disco Breaks LET’S DO IT AGAIN AGAIN, BUT SMEARED Burial, Tunes 2011-2019 OR PERHAPS YOU WERE THERE Callisto, Guidance is Eternal, Part I PERHAPS YOU WERE THERE FOR MICROHOUSE AND PEAK MEGO AND BLOGS Barker, Debiasing AT A WAREHOUSE PARTY, ABLE TO HEAR TOO MANY FLOORS, ROOMS, SOUNDS AT ONCE, IN A GOOD WAY Dies Smely, “Neptune Rises” AT A WAREHOUSE PARTY, BUT THINKING ABOUT PLUNDER, THE TRAIL OF TEARS, THE SANCTITY OF EARTH Kelman Duran, 13 Month A KIND OF BLUE Steve Hiett, Down on the Road by the Beach POSSIBLY MY MOST PLAYED ALBUM, 2019 Galcher Lustwerk, Information R.I.P. PRINCE, FOREVER AND ALWAYS Serpente, Parada Moodymann, Sinner Nelson Bandela, Purprain THE OPPOSITE OF “I AM A GOD” Nelson Bandela - “i'm mortal” YOU GOT ME Shane Eagle feat. Santi and Bas, “Vanya” HARD TO BELIEVE JAZMINE SULLIVAN REMAINS SO OVERLOOKED Kindness feat Jazmine Sullivan, “Hard to Believe” WATCH FOR THE HOOK Quando Rondo, “Gun Powder”

ANTE UP Polo G feat Lil Tjay, “Pop Out” “PANTS GON BE SAGGIN TIL I’M FORTY” Freddie Gibbs and Madlib, “Thuggin”

“WHY THEY LET THE TERMINATOR WIN THE ELECTION?” Sault, “Why Why Why Why Why”

HOLLOW BONES Showbiz and Milano, “Guillotine” LADI LUV, “GOOD TO THE LAST DUB” City Girls, “Act Up” MONEY BOSS PLAYERS Benny the Butcher feat 38 Spesh and Jadakiss, “Sunday School” Roc Marciano, “Richard Gear” WARP 30 (1989-2019) Droop-E, “The Droop-E Way” INTERSTELLAR SPACE, PROBABLY KILLER LIVE Blacks’ Myths, Blacks Myths II ALICE NEVER WENT ANYWHERE Sam Wilkes, “Sivaya” Alice Coltrane, Live at the Berkeley Community Theater 1972 RIYL: LYRICHORD, EFFECTS PEDALS Seungmin Cha, Nuunmuun RIYL: EFFICIENCY, INTERLUDES Solange, “Binz” “WHO HERE IS STILL LISTENING TO JOHNNY MAY CASH’S “DRUGS” IN 2019?” Playboi Carti, “Molly” “MOLLY” CZ Wang and Neo Image, “Just Off Wave”

YOU’VE SUBSCRIBED TO “UK STREETSOUL YOUTUBE PLAYLIST” Apiento feat Harriet Brown, “Down That Road” WHERE WERE U IN 2092? Jai Paul, “He”

LIL B, INNIT Voldy Moyo, Paper World SCREAMADELICA Vampire Weekend, “Harmony Hall” Humeysha, Nusrat on the Beach FOLKTRONICA Aldous Harding, “The Barrel” TOO PURE Springfields, Singles 1986-1991 MY AQUARIUM Rod Modell, Captagon ANOTHER WORLD IS POSSIBLE Vagabon, Vagabon 4-TRACK TWEE BEDROOM COVERS OF BLINK-182′S DUDE RANCH Colleen Green, Blink-182′s “Dude Ranch” as Played by Colleen Green

KINDA AS THOUGH A PART OF MY 2016-19 LP PURCHASES FORMED THEIR OWN BANDS Anunaku, Whities 024 75 Dollar Bill, I Was Real Joshua Abrams and Natural Information Society, Mandatory Reality

JUST 30 OR SO GECS Cool Fang, Sparring I’M A DEADHEAD BUT FOR STANDING ON THE CORNER SOTC Art Ensemble, SOTC Double Bass Ensemble * Merciful Allah Black Hole Theater * 4/24/19 SOTC Art Ensemble, Variation 9 * Merciful Allah Black Hole Theater * 4/27/19

SONG OF THE SPRING, SUMMER, WINTER, YEAR, STILL UNDEFEATED